


The Chakra of Merlin

by SweetAndSharp



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Andriods, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Clones, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Merlin's Issues, Science Fiction, Screwed up BDSM stuff, Some stuff I'm not really defining, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetAndSharp/pseuds/SweetAndSharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the far future Merlin has left guardians to be sure the universe is looked after. And then...The Once And Future King wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01: Muladhara

It is, of course, a tremendous irony that Seven is the one actually nearest Earth when the Once and Future (well, Once and Now, apparently) King decides to fuss himself enough to climb out of his watery grave. Ironic, because, of all of them, he's the one that wants this 'honor' the least. He generally eschews Earth just in case. Just so it won't be him.

They all have to know when it happens, seeing as they all have the same brain, more or less. Seven felt it blossom in the back of his head like syrup dipped vertigo, a dizzying rush as the entire universe seems to shift gravity to some point on the British Isles on a little planet called Earth in a boring solar system. Go there, the impulse screams, because Seven knows it's fate and destiny and all sorts of trite rot.

He goes anyway. Picked himself off the tiny galley floor from whence he had tumbled and set course. There's never been much of a question if he would. He's a Merlin, and Arthur has always been true north.

He dropped from the standard lunar orbit around the Moon, and queued up at one of the planet-fall ports behind a freight vessel. It's just another day on Earth; sun rising in America, sun setting in China. In the UK it's a balmy afternoon, according to a cursory check of the weather. Nothing special. According to the news feed, no revolutions have broken out, no governments are on the verge of collapse, and nobody has whacked anyone of any geopolitical or interplanetary significance.

All in all, it takes Seven half an hour to arrive on the shores of Avalon. It would have taken him twenty, except the freighter pilot didn't know his ass from his elbow and couldn't navigate his load into the sanitizer to cleanse all interstellar parasites. Seven got through though, deft and easy because he is such a fantastic pilot that several organizations keep trying to recruit him, some legal, some not. Not that it matters.

He landed Fiducia on an expanse of grass, not at all concerned he'd be issued a ticket for parking a interstellar vessel on someone's lawn because this property has been owned by Merlin for over a thousand years. He cut the engine and unstrapped himself from the console.

For a moment he paused in the bathroom, looked in the mirror. He looked like himself; thready beard, long unkempt hair, the tattoos on his jaw and cheekbones, more like a G-Thug or pirate. Of course, that also means he looks the least like the others, something he's tried hard to do with application of hair, scar, and ink. He almost reached for the comb for just a little bit of- but fuck that. What will it matter anyway? So, he just tied his oil smeared blue scarf over his head. His Once and Nowness can suck it.

When Seven exited the hatch, his heart was about to burst through his chest, but he'd never let it show, not ever. He'd rather choke to death on the business end of a flail. So when he spied the aberrant crimson on the otherwise rocky and weedy shore, Seven only firmed his jaw and set off at a steady stride.

King Arthur Pendragon was soaked and bedraggled, and looking not at all mythic or imposing on his knees in some marshy smelling mud. His blond hair was plastered to his head, his Camelot red cape twisted around him, sticking, chain mail sparkling with water droplets, and he seemed to be hacking his windpipe clear. Seven stood to the side, letting him get on with it, hands braced on his Plas-pistol holster. Nothing he can do to help at the moment.

When King Arthur sucked down a clear breath, not without wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked around blearily. Seven could see when Arthur spotted his boots. Arthur's gaze tracked upwards, to Seven's face and Seven gave a casual little wave with a calloused hand.

“Better?”

Arthur looked at him, uncomprehending, and Seven suddenly understood 'dollophead' after several lifetimes of a general ambivalence bordering on befuddlement towards the term.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, your majesty.” Seven said with what he hoped was his usual gruff and dry delivery.

King Arthur Pendragon passed out with his face in the mud.

Seven rolled his eyes and dug the toe of his boot under a pauldron and flipped the king onto his back so he won't suffocate himself on silt. _You're welcome, Destiny_.

“I suppose you won't be walking on board, then,” Seven told the inert, mud-smeared majesty, feeling just a bit let down that this wasn't more grandiose. Seven was rather expecting piercing rays of divinely sent sunlight punching through the clouds to shine off etched armor, suffusing the long-awaiting figure with a halo of gold, as befitting someone of his stature in the mythic community as he strode from the waters of Avalon, his famous sword in one hand, face beatific and all backed by a seraphic chorus, perhaps some cherubs flitting around holding boughs of cherry blossoms and thus raining pink petals about.

The reality seemed to be King Arthur Pendragon with a mouthful of grit.

“Hey.” Seven nudged him with his boot.

Nothing.

“Dollophead.” Again, harder. His majesty flopped around in the mud, not terribly majestically.

“Well then.” Seven glanced over the water.“No explanation, then? Why's he back now?”

He waited.

“Really? World War Three, first contact, a hundred years of civil unrest, planetary flight, and you bring him back on some random Wednesday because it tickles you?”

Somewhere some kind of bird made a honking noise.

“Hello?”

Only the rattling of the waves whooshed.

“I'm waiting. Some explanation would be super.”

Nothing.

Seven's mouth twitched as he looked over the inert king. He did have an emergency stretcher in his med kit, but seeing as there was only himself, he'd rather not drag it along. He could have used magic to hold up the other end, but his own supply was too minor to support the stretcher and block view of whatever satellites might have their lense aimed at just this spot. Sure, the others called him paranoid, but they hadn't been loose in the universe. Seven was never sure just who might be on the other end.

Also, there was no sword.

“Hey,” Seven called to the dimpled water. “Where's Excalibur? He's gonna need it if he's expected to be kinging about.”

The lake made some lapping sounds. Seven thought they might have sounded considering.

“I know it's meant only for him. Fork it over, I'll see he gets it. I'm good for my word, you know that.”

Seven didn't see exactly what spat the silvery blade at him, only that suddenly it was sailing towards him. He dodged, and it stabbed deep into the sod ahead of him, swaying with the force of having stopped suddenly. If it hadn't been forged in a dragon's fire and therefore was nigh indestructible, Seven would have been pissed about blunting it.

He didn't say anything, but he did give the lake the bird. They probably saw it anyway. They definitely heard his grumbling as Seven was forced to haul a man with a good thirty pounds on him PLUS armor in a fireman's carry to the Fiducia. He dropped the king onto the spare bunk with as much care as he could. It wasn't a lot, but it had been a good thirty yards and Seven was annoyed, wet and tired.

Seven eyed the king, and begrudgingly straightened out a few of his limbs, then went to get Excalibur, wiping at the mud that had been scrubbed off on him. Not that it helped. The knees of his trousers were soiled, and his shirt and undershirt were soaked through with water that had been clinging to the king.

Pulling the sword from the earth sent a little zing of power up Seven's arm. He held the blade aloft, full of admiration for such an item of legend. He bore it into Fiducia, and stored it in the safest passcode locked hold he had, the one even the others knew nothing about.

Wasting no time, Seven strapped himself back at the console and fired up the vessel. In ten minutes he was in the line for deep space ascent. Once in orbit he cozied up to one of the fuel stations, and while the automatic mechanism pumped fuel into Fiducia Seven accessed his communications to deal with the flashing light that had been screaming aggressively at him.

There were five messages, most with much the same content. He listened to all of them just to be sure, then sent a data stream back.

Two picked up. It was his prim cadence that clipped out hello.

“Package received,” Seven said.

There was silence for a full minute.

“Central, do you copy?” Seven asked when the quiet had gone on a bit too long for comfort.

“Yes. Rendezvous expected at Central.” Two sounded distracted, even under the static and the din which was clearly Three in the background asking 'what's he like? What's he like?' in the manner of a caffeinated six year old.

“Copy,” Seven said.

The comm made a clicking, muffled sound and then there came Three, loud and clear, breathless and bursting with enthusiasm from so many parsecs away. “Seven, is he there? Can he hear me? Can I say hello? What's he like?”

Seven twirled his chair around to look at the entrance to the residential section of the ship. He considered a moment.

“No, no, no and a dead weight. Package is Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “Seven over and out.” He disconnected.

He rose then and returned to the bunks. He hadn't the first idea how to remove all the armor from the inert body in the bunk. Still, he needed to secure the king for the jump. Dispassionately, Seven nudged King Arthur's limbs around, and then pulled one of the bracebuckles from the wall to strap his highness in.

He was finishing the last one when he saw that the king's blue eyes were open, groggy. The king was staring at him.

“What?” Seven snapped. He felt irritable, he didn't know why. Possibly the way the king's brows went soft and relieved.

“Mrr'lin?” the king slurred.

Seven exhaled through his nose. “Not the, no. A.”

But the king had already dropped into unconsciousness.

 

They arrived at Tintagel Station almost twelve hours later. A fitful twelve hours, during which Seven was painfully aware of his cargo, unable to rest, to shut off all the possibilities and concerns inside his mind that buzzed with more power than Fiducia's engine.

His majesty had slumbered through the journey, even though he'd been sleeping for centuries, Seven didn't know why he needed more. On the other hand, it meant they didn't need to have any awkward conversations and that suited Seven just fine. He did not want to have to explain who he was, or where they were or how much time had passed, and he didn't understand the envy dripping from the others for his position when they sent data streams to check his progress. It was just as well he hadn't been able to sleep, otherwise the constant interruptions would have driven him mad.

The various levels of security surrounding Tintagel were opened for him in a twinkling, and soon enough Seven landed Fiducia in the hanger of the small station. It was well hidden, their little sanctuary, concealed behind the best technology, obscured with the strongest magic.

For once, there were people waiting to greet him, besides Shay. As soon as he set down Shay began attaching the umbilicals to Fiducia to filter her water and sewage systems, clean the Oxy-scrubbers, charge her networks. But, there were also the others, lined up in the docking bay. There was Two, ramrod straight in one of his pansified tight white jumpsuits, uplink in hand, his short haircut betraying what ridiculous ears they all had. Three was almost bouncing in anticipation and had carefully selected an antique shirt with Ash and the quote 'Hail to the King, Baby', his mop of hair showing signs of actual styling effort, Four was nudging an elbow into him and laughing, even though he himself had even preened; none of his clothes were wrinkled in carelessness. Even One, whose shaved head did even more tragic things for the ears, as did his state of body building, was standing towards the back. Ever loyal, Lance was at Two's elbow.

Seven hit the hatch and shucked his hands into his pockets.

“Special delivery.”

“I'd say special. Where is this Queen you lot are always going on about? Is she a dainty little flower?” Shay said, smirking, wiping her hands on an oil cloth before tucking it in her back pocket.

  
Seven saw Lance's lips quirk just barely in amusement, exactly as an andriod shouldn't, unless that andriod had been in the company of warlocks for a few centuries.

Seven came down the ramp and they all seemed to inhale and hold their breaths, attention fixed on the open hatch.

When no dramatic entry occurred Three frowned. “Where is he?”

Seven raised a brow, and flicked his head back. “Bunks.”

“He has not regained consciousness?” Two said, frowning.

Seven shook his head. This clearly gave them all pause, with Three's face crumpling in concern. Seven rolled his eyes. “I took a scan, he's fine.”

Two stepped up the ramp, looking Seven in the eye like he thought an unblinking stare was going to answer lingering questions. “Five is dealing with a plague on the Danpring Colony. I will tend to him.”

“I want to see him,” Three said. “It's Arthur!”

“Whoa there, tiger,” Shay laid a hand on Three's shoulder, then rubbed it.

“It can wait,” Two ordered. Seven snorted when Four and Three looked slightly crestfallen. Good dogs.

Seven followed Two to Fiducia's bunks, hanging back in the doorway when Two stepped in, his footfalls lightening to a soft and reverent tread. When he stood beside the Once and Future King, Two stared down at him, his face going tender. He reached out a hand and caressed the blonde hair softly, pressing it back from the brow of the slumbering monarch.

The open affection made Seven snort. Two jolted, and shot Seven a piercing look.

“Don't get too familiar.” Seven said gruffly. “He ain't ours.”

Two stiffened, then removed his hand to work with the uplink. “The least you could have done was clean him up. He's our king.”

“Little mud won't hurt him,” Seven said, then glanced behind him. Lance had boarded the ship and, looking as awkward as only he could, tried to be as unemphatic as possible as he slid by Seven with an expandable stretcher in hand.

Two released the brace buckles. “Try to mask your disdain for our liege.”

Seven was obliged to help Lance move the king onto the stretcher, seeing as Two had the slender constitution of a noodle. They shuffled King Arthur out of Fiducia's narrow confines, and down the ramp. Shay hung behind Three and Four as they crowded close to get a glimpse of the king as he went by, walking a few paces with the stretcher to drink in the continence.

“He's filthy!” Protested Three.

“I don't presume to know him that well.” said Seven, leading the way and refusing to stop and let the bask.

“Berk. Could have at least tidied him up.” Even Four sounded slightly chastening.

“Not a nursemaid,” Seven reminded them.

“If I'd been there I'd have—” Three started.

“Swooned before he had a chance to?” Four teased, his disapproval evaporating.

Three ignored him. “He's the most beautiful thing I ever saw.” He gave a distinctly twitterpated sigh.

Seven rolled his eyes, and was glad when Three and Four fell back as he and Lance bore the king through to the corridor, to the elevator.Two followed at their heels. They passed by One leaning on the wall, who did not alter from his position with his arms crossed over his chest. He watched them go, but his face was impassive, not even the little twitch on the scarred left side. Why he couldn't carry the stretcher, Seven didn't know.

After a tensely silent elevator ride, Lance and Seven carried Arthur into the med-chamber, and laid him down on the procedure table to remove the stretcher.

“You may go, Lance.” Two said, activating the unit.

Lance nodded and departed. Seven followed him, leaving Two to tend the figure.

 

 

Freed, Seven went up to the galley on the third floor, slouching against the wall of the elevator for the duration of the ride. The lights were too fluorescent, everything too sterile on Tintagel. He didn't spend a lot of time here, he preferred to be out in Fiducia, preferably with great quantities of distance between himself and a crowd of other men with his face.

In the kitchens, he rifled around until he located a bottle of whiskey. God, he needed this. Had needed it for hours upon hours, wanting to drown his worries in the acid taste of alcohol to just dull the sharp corners of all his thoughts, just blunt them a bit to make the long trip a little less hellish, but he hadn't dared. They'd know, if he'd arrived in Tintagel even so much as tipsy. They'd know, in that horrible group way they had of just knowing, and they'd never forgive him for fling Arthur drunk. 

Never-mind he was still an excellent pilot completely drunk.

Seven extinguished the over-head lights, leaving only dim threads of safety lighting by the doors. He headed into the attached dining hall. In the dark the floor to ceiling windows showed an exquisite scene of the gas giant Tintagel orbited, clouds of dust and ice crystals and a carpet of far reaching stars.

Seven sank into one of the chairs, removed the bottle cap and threw it across the room. He wouldn't need it again. He planned on devouring the entire bottle in the hopes it would mute his unrest. He took a lengthy pull from the bottle and sighed. A start.

He'd not gotten very far when Four strolled in, flipped a chair and sat in it backwards, bracing his chin on the chair back while he watched Seven suck at the bottle.

“So,” Four said after many minutes of silence. “I figure, if you tell me all about it you won't have to endure an interrogation by Dos. Or from Tri. Either way, you'd be happier giving me the intel and I'll pass it along.”

“Where is Three?”

“Observation room, watching Dos. Gonna burst his little self.”

“Christ,” Seven breathed.

Four made a gimmie gesture, and Seven reluctantly handed over the bottle. Four took a few gulps then handed it back.

“So?” Four prompted.

Seven shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was already on the shore when I got there, coughing. He looked up at me then passed out. He woke up a little when I got him on board. Called me Merlin then passed out again. End of story.”

“That's it?” Seven was pleased to note even Four looked a little let down. “No angels flying out of his arse? Divine choir? Trumpets? Spontaneous rain of toads?”

“That's a plague.”

“Not to the French.” Four said and grinned.

“There was nothing except a near need for CPR.”

“What about the sword?” Four asked.

Seven drank, shrugged. “It was returned.”

“Really?” Four perked up. “Excalibur? Here? Shit, where is it?”

“It's not for us.” Seven snapped, feeling angrier about it than he had any right to.

“Obviously, but still. _Excalibur_. Sword to end all swords? It's here? You can't blame a man for wanting to see it. Touch it. Prime did use to go on about it.”

Seven had nothing to say to that. He'd heard all those stories too, and yet, he felt the sword better remain safe until Arthur was fit to wield it. Four had that rakish gleam in his eyes. He wouldn't do harm. Just hide away with Shay playing Knights or Pirates or some shit. Despite a gender shift, Shay was more rakish than Four any day of the week.

When Four realized Seven wasn't going to budge they sat in silence for some time drinking, and Seven was glad of it. He didn't want to talk about it. Vehemently. He just wanted to drink, and now he finally had the chance to quell the worried firings in his brain, he did.

Eventually, Four mumbled something about Shay and he took off, leaving Seven in the dark. It didn't bother him. He felt fully confident of drinking in the dark. So he did. When the bottle was gone, he found another, and when that was gone he dragged himself to his station room and fell into the bed. He prayed there would be no dreams.

There were.


	2. 02: Vishudda

 

That Seven was so lazy, self involved and careless bothered Two in the highest extreme. Yes, they needed Seven with his hard soul, his ship and his criminal tendencies in the name of destiny, but it didn't mean Two couldn't get good old-fashioned irked with his brother.

As soon as Seven headed out of the med-chamber without a backwards look to their liege, Two secured the door then pocketed his uplink.

He stepped to the table, lightly laid his fingers on the edge. Then he stood, still as could be. He closed his eyes and listened. Only listened.

His Majesty's breathing was even and deep. Two could hear the draw inwards through his nose, the way air tickled over his vocal chords in some mere hint of the sound quality therein. There came the hovering second of quiet, and then the fuzzy sound of exhale. Beautiful. For seven breaths Two stood, almost unmoving, savoring the simple sound of it. Air, moving in and out. Air was life. Air moving through his Majesty's lungs. Alive.

Two closed his eyes and gave thanks for that miracle.

 

But, it was time to work, Two reminded himself, he had a duty to perform. He pulled out his uplink and plucked out a few commands, and the chamber was filled with the sounds of a rhythmic heartbeat. The thudding compress of King Arthur Pendragon's heart, functioning, the sound of life, even better than the draw of breath.

 

Accompanied by that splendid sound, Two went to the hold for medical supplies, lining up what he would need on a rolling tray, including gloves. He faltered a moment before donning them, but snapped a pair on.

As much as he was reluctant to see to it, it would be best if his Majesty did not rouse in the middle of the medical proceedings. The bright light, the strange mechanisms, the foreign prodding, they were all likely to be terrifying. Medicine had moved far beyond the herbs and bandages wielded by Camelot's physician Giaus and Two did not wish to commence his Majesty's return with fear of this new age. Additionally, tales suggested that such fear would be met with a fight and in that scenario Two suspected he would not come out the victor. After all, his Majesty had only just-assuming he was not aware of the passage of time- discovered that Merlin Prime was a sorcerer.

While Two would never doubt that Arthur's goodness would have him trust Prime, for the sake of everyone it was with a pinch of regret Two administered a sedative.

 

“Forgive me for the presumption, your Majesty,” Two murmured to the sleeping face of his king. The throbbing beat did not stutter, but remained steady and pulsing like music while Two ensured his Majesty slumbered through what was to follow.

 

When he had disposed of the needle,Two picked up a headblock, and with great care situated his Majesty's head on it, for as much comfort as could be achieved in these proceedings.

He tapped a control panel, bringing up a file he had studied intensively about medieval armor and how to apply and remove it. Two knew it by heart, and had reviewed it in the time preceding Seven's arrival bearing Arthur, but in case he forgot anything he wanted the animated reference near. Memorizing it had been important. Caring for the king's wardrobe and helping him to don it had been one of Prime's skills. That made it a worthy task. Someone would need to resume that occupation, Two noted. Modern clothes and armor would be confusing for a man who had not dressed himself with regularity.

 

Two removed the still-sodden cloak first, fingering the shining gold fixtures which remained as vibrant as ever. The crimson material was smeared with mud, grass and grit, some of it dry and flaking off. However, all of his liege's possessions would be treasured links to the past when his Majesty awoke, and would be accorded care and respect. What he wore now were the only things that lingered from a life thousands of years ago, and thus accorded respect. Two folded the cloak precisely and set it on an adjacent table. Afterward he would launder and polish everything until it was restored to a state of perfection.

 

 After a moment of ginger, yet joyous foretaste, Two made bold and lifted one his liege's hands from the cold of the table-- too cold. He used his uplink to raise the temperature in the room slightly so there would be no discomfort. Then, Two pinched the utmost tips of the the dark glove, working the leather covering off the fingers in supremely gentle tugs until he could peel the glove free. He went around to the other side and repeated the careful uncovering.

When his Majesty's hands laid bare atop his chest, Two admired them. For all he had seen sketches of the King's noble visage, or his imposing figure, the hands were new. Prime had not drawn them, not them alone in such minute detail.

Two looked upon them; the length and breadth of fingers, the crease of knuckles, the shape and condition of the nails, the span of palm, the lines, the freckles, the scars. Then, unable to remain aloof, he peeled off the thin protective gloves and reached out to meet the skin of his Majesty's hands, flesh to flesh.

He hardly believed his own audacity, curling his fingers with his Majesty's. If it had been his own heart pounding through the speakers he was sure it would have stuttered in awe of the contact.

After a few moments Two began to feel along his Majesty's hand softly, marveling at the texture of his liege's skin, all the corrugation and varying color that made up human flesh. He noted the callouses of a warrior, traced the silky ridges of scars, touched the band of skin in a slightly lighter color than the surrounding flesh on the index finger where Two knew a ring had slotted. It had been taken off when he went into combat, and had been Queen Guinevere’s until she gave it to Prime on her death bed. It now rested around Prime's neck for the day it could be rejoined with its owner. A day that should have been today.

 

When Two concluded his inspection of his majesty's hands he laid them at his liege's side. He then went to his Majesty's feet and with the same care pulled free the boots. The leather had stained from having been in the water, but otherwise were as supple as they had been thousands of years ago, when cobbled. Two peeled his liege's feet free. After the boots came the woven socks and garters, all lined up beside the gloves on the table.

Two performed another inspection, this time of his Majesty's feet. He skated his fingers over the toes, up the tendons to the ankle. After cupping the arches, he examined the soles; ball and heel.

Thump-thump went his Majesty's heart. Steady. Calm. Safe.

 

With great care and precision Two detached the pauldrons, the gorget, the counter and the vambraces. The tabard, with its golden embroidered dragon was given the utmost care in removal.  Two laid it onto the table, stroked the crimson fabric, the Pendragon. Perhaps there were medieval belts and boots, mail and armor remaining in the world, locked in museums as relics of times passed, but this? There was nothing like this in anywhere in the universe. This Camelot tabard was the only one in existence, the only proof of a mighty kingdom rendered down to myth. Two wouldn't help but cherish it.

Taking off the chain mail proved difficult, for it had no give, like cloth. He accomplished it with the assistance of one of the robotic surgeon arms. The maile was heavy, a rend gaping where a sword forged in a dragon's breath passed through. Two made a note to research mailers and see if the damage could be repaired.

 

It made his liege look slighter, stripped down to his more serviceable garments. There was the smell of him on the air now, freed from metal and cloak. Two inhaled deeply. The salt tang of sweat and earth, the rounder musk of body odor, woodsmoke, and the copper-lush hints of blood.

 

Now the king was down to his smalls, Two glanced up to the second floor observation area, and unsurprisingly found Three with his nose almost smashed to the glass, watching. He was making foggy condensation. It would have to be cleaned. Two went to his uplink and tapped in so the privacy shades were drawn. He heard the protesting squawk as the shades cloaked the view.

 

Thus maintaining his liege's dignity, Two finished removing the king's clothing. It was still damp, and was a wonder he'd not caught a chill. The heavy padded gambeson, belt, trousers. The light linen undershirt was the most stained by stale blood, haloing out from the thin slit in the delicate fabric. Two had to peel it free. It was the least likely to be recovered, so he folded it, and sealed it into a bag. It held coveted DNA, after all.

Now his Majesty laid nude, Two pulled out the retractable hose, and began to wash his king with warm water, a scentless soap and a soft cloth. As he went, stroking over muscled limbs, he read out observations to the Med-computer of things to scan. Five was the physician, he would know at once what ailed the King and would need fixing, and when he arrived he would doubtless have to go over him again. Still, this would give him a good basis upon which to begin.

 

The wound which had ended King Arthur was now no more than a fine pink line of scar. Two noted it as he washed, stroked over the mortal blow which always made Prime's eyes go soft and hurt. He refrained from bending, paying homage to the sign of such agony with a press of lips, though he very much wanted to.

However, he did not stint himself in the touching of his liege, though he felt some some seed of guilt to be caressing his Majesty whilst he was vulnerable. But Two also knew there would be no other chance to do so, and it felt beyond incredible to feel this titanic purpose of his life, flesh skating under his own, his almost-destiny, warm and supple and breathing. So Two took his time in washing him, front and back, cleaning every inch; from between his toes, to his navel, under his arms, and behind his ears, chasing away the earthy scent of battle. He even, with the paramount of care, washed the quiescent genitals with tender consideration. Two bathed his face free of the mud, gently soaking the caked filth off until all that remained was flawless skin and the handsome sleeping visage. Carefully, Two rinsed his mouth, turning his Majesty's head on the headblock to let the water flow back out. He concluded by languorously shampooing and conditioning his hair.

 

When he was finished, he sent the hose back into its slot. Technically, this chamber was not used for bathing live people, so Two dried the King by hand with towels, blotting and stroking all the moisture away. There was a jet of air at his service, and Two used this to dry his liege's hair. Then he combed it, arranged it.

 

Oral hygiene came next. Two cleaned his teeth, but winced at the state of them. Medieval dentistry was a brutal art. He decided to fix what he could, calling down several mechanisms from the ceiling to tend to the cavities, pull one infected tooth and give him one painless root canal, though he would never think of correcting the crooked tooth. The repairs were over very swiftly, but the heart rate that had become Two's world around him did accelerate some. Two let him rest until the throb was back in proper time.

 

An in-depth scan turned up a chart of his Majesty's interior health.  There were bones that had been broken, fractured or cracked and rehealed, muscle that had been sliced into and then knit together again. The faint signs of insufficient nutrition had left their mark, as had disease, though generally he was a healthy adult male. He was carrying a few parasites which were easily eradicated, along with some harmful bacteria and a fungal infection, but Two was glad to see no signs of anything more threatening. He administered a few inoculations, but not too extensively. Best to leave that to his brother when he arrived.

 

He saw his liege moisturized, deodorant applied, his finger and toenails cleaned, manicured, a few blackheads removed, one wart lasered off and four pre-cancerous moles. When he had done all he could, Two dressed him in some soft sleeping scrubs. Then, with great regret, closed the recording and called Lance back to bear his Majesty to a quiet invalid room beside the med-chamber.

 

“Meet me in the control room.” Two said when they had moved his Majesty. Lance left.

 

Two arranged the blankets around the his sleeping liege. This was a better place to wake to. The light was dim, the bed was soft. There would be a few strange machines, but it would be better than the filthy rust bucket ship Seven seemed to prefer to Tintagel. Here, he would wake washed and safe in bed, and know he was cared for. Not covered in filth strapped in somewhere.

 

After positioning his liege where he would find the most comfort, Two used his uplink to check the security cameras in the room. They were functioning. He set their feed to his topmost priority, so he would know the moment his Majesty roused. Then he locked the doors, and programed the locks to respond to his code alone. It would keep everyone but Three out. He'd need to re-iterate his orders of strict bedrest for his Majesty to the little hacker.

 

Lance was waiting in the Control Room at attention.

 

“Please, sit.” Two indicated to one of the many swiveling chairs. He himself took one at the main console, keying in.

 

“We are met with a somewhat unusual circumstance,” he said to Lance without looking up, fingers flying over the key console. “We are not prepared for his Majesty's return, and I have no way of contacting Merlin Prime. I must rely on you for data.”

 

“I will help where I can,” Lance said, for all the world looking uncomfortable. “but I am only a artificial person. I cannot hope to provide adequate information regarding appropriate decisions.”

 

“An artificial person who received several direct transfers from Merlin Prime, hence the alterations to your programming which have made you resemble Lancelot du Lac with far more accuracy than simple programming ever could. You are no longer a mere android.”

 

Lance ducked his head. Two knew he could not deny it. Two had seen Lance interact with other androids, had observed that they could indeed run in perfect accord, machines emulating life, obeying a programming. But, he had also observed the moments when a reaction or a statement from Lance set him apart. When some small alteration made him a little more than the others of his kind. Those small glitches in behavior presented the fine differences between that which was truly artificial and that which had been affected by forces outside of science.

 

“You have files on Arthur Pendragon?” Two said.

 

“Extensive.”

 

“Send them all to me.” Two imagined he had viewed most of them anyway, but a review would be most welcome.

 

Lance hesitated, and Two looked up. “What is it?”

 

Lance said “There are some files even I cannot access.”

 

Two held up a hand and made to punch into his uplink when the doors popped open and Three burst in. Convenient.

 

“You didn't let me watch!” Three accused.

 

“His Majesty's dignity would demand no gawkers.” Two put his uplink away and turned his attention back to the computer.

 

“Gawker? I'm not a gawker! I'm a Merlin, and I've just as much right as you to-”

 

“Irrelevant. The task is finished. However, you can be of service to his Majesty now.” Two did not look up from his console. His younger brother's fits weren't always worth it, since they blew over swiftly. Logic and duty often defeated fits of pique, since there was little sense in the latter. It accomplished nothing. At any rate, Three couldn't hold onto anger for long, and was very forgiving. Compassionate to a fault.

 

Three huffed and made a few irritated little sounds, then quelled.

 

“What can I do to help?” Three asked, looking curious despite his best efforts not to.

 

Two handed him over a datacore. “Encrypt and send this data over secure lines to Five. Then I want you to take Lance and scan through his files pertaining to his Majesty. I have no records of contingency plans should this occur, but I do not think Prime would have left us without his intentions.”

 

Three took the disc, then nodded. He bit his lip. “When . . . he wakes up, can I . . .?”

 

“I need this data in order to select the most appropriate course of action, Three.” Two reminded him, careful to keep the edge out of his voice. How could they not think? How could they not understand when they had been privy to the same tales as he? It was their duty to serve his Majesty, to help him. In some future time that might take on any number of forms, after his Majesty had acclimatized, but now? There was a delicate transition to make and the gravity of it seeming to elude them. They were only thinking of themselves.

 

The last thing King Arthur Pendragon knew was that he had died, Camelot safe, his evil sister Morgana defeated, his wife to gain his throne and that his loyal friend had been a warlock hiding from him. He had never known he was the Once and Future King. Had never expected to return to a world almost completely alien to him, where his life, his kingdom, his legacy had become an unsubstantiated legend, and certainly not a world where Merlin had multiplied, and yet none of them were _him_.

 

His siblings failed to realize that if they didn't handle this correctly, harm could come to his Majesty, even with the best of intentions.

 

Three hadn't moved, so Two set him with an even stare. Three's mouth twitched, then he sighed,

 

“Come on, Lance.”

 

They departed. Three dragging his feet.

 

Two turned back to the console. He was completing his log entry encompassing all the events and measures taken thus far. Such records would be vital if the worst occurred and someone else needed take over. He included the data from his scans, the times he had noted on his uplink, significant details, and concluded with his plans thus far. Once saved, he opened up the prediction program Three had created which he insisted on called Madame Fortunata. It collected news bites from across human colonized space from the past five years, and would extrapolate probable outcomes based on the situation, the past history of the region and the people involved. Two had set it to discover if a major breakdown in human government was nigh. Thus far it had completed 76%, and the most remarkable event it predicted was a minor dip in the Stellar Stock Exchange. Nothing The Once and Future King could correct.

 

Yet, his Majesty must be here for a reason, and what that reason must be troubled Two immensely.

 

Two leaned back, grasped his uplink, and paged Shay. After a few minutes there came a breathless response.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Two tried not to rumple his nose with distaste at the mid coital response. Had they no concept of timing? Of all the productive things Shay and Four could be doing, why were they fornicating?

  
“Shay, please prepare for a supply run.” Two said shortly.

 

“Now?” The whine was evident, as was Four's faint huff of disappointment.

 

“Now." Two affirmed. "I require you to fill all our reserves with fuel, as well as purchase replacement parts for all vital systems on Tintagel, as well as additional solar panels. You will purchase extra drums of water, food and medical supplies. I will furnish you with an itemized list.”

 

“Fuck! What are you expecting, a siege?” Four said, apparently having appropriated Shay's communicator.

 

“I wish to be prepared for all eventualities.”

 

“We have Arthur, what could possibly happen to us?” Four prodded.

 

Two frowned. No. His siblings were not thinking. “Contrive to remember how his Majesty's last reign was characterized and its inevitable conclusion.”

 

There was quiet while Four and Shay worked that out.

 

“Wait . . . so . . .you're saying-”

 

“Transmitting list now. Please leave immediately, Shay. Four, you may go with her if you wish.”

 

Two disconnected his uplink. He hoped Four did go. The fewer siblings his Majesty had to adapt to at once, the easier. Better to stagger them.

 

He keyed in briefly to look at the security feed, requesting broadcast of the heartrate. There came the soothing thrum of a slumbering pulse. His Majesty was still asleep.

 

Two rubbed his face. He'd been up for twenty seven hours now, the stillness of computer work burning away the adrenaline which had kept him alert all the hours preceding the arrival. If he was going to maintain the delicate balance between his siblings and his liege, he needed to be fresh. He could tell his mind was deteriorating, even as a part of him felt the pressure to remain awake, to perform as the others could not.

 

He scanned Tintagel for his brothers, sound muted. Four and Shay were in Shay's quarters, apparently finishing their tryst. Two flicked through the security feed only quick enough to verify it was the two of them thrashing around on her bed. They were likely to depart directly they satiated themselves. He found Seven in his bed too, a bottle dropped on the floor, intoxicated. Three was in the workroom, his Crackerhacker uplink braced on his lap, cords attached to the open panel on the back of Lance's neck. Three's tongue was sticking out, a sign of intense concentration.

 

One proved elusive, as he usually did. Two could not find him either in the security feeds or with his magic. He wished to remain hidden, then.

 

None of them were suitable replacements for manservant. They all would perform the job if asked, of course, with the possible exception of Seven, who always seemed to find their indebtedness to his Majesty a slur. However, serving his Majesty also meant using resources wisely. Three had the right demeanor, but his skill with computers and robotics was often needed. One would be too surly at it, and Two had no desire to show his liege any more of the dark components of Prime's personality. Four would be to flip, and Two had some horrible ulcer inducing thought of him trying to crawl into bed with his Majesty, besmirching the memory of Guinevere and offending his Majesty in the extreme. While Two had no such designs on his liege, nor capacity to murder, it must be said that their reflection in One and Four invariability meant they were components of Prime. Also not something his Majesty needed to be immediately introduced to. Five seemed the best solution, but as a doctor he had many other more pressing matters to attend to.

 

So, Two would have to act as his manservant until another option presented itself.

 

Guinevere brought up another interesting notion. Two lined up another computer search for all persons named Guinevere, Leon, Morgana, Uther, Gaius, Percival, Elyan, Lancelot, Gwaine (and variants). He didn't expect to locate anything, but it was better to have performed the search and found no viable matches than to not search and miss them.

 

Two flicked the feed back to his Majesty and leaned back in his chair once more. He watched the slumbering body, the king who he was privileged to serve. Perhaps it was old fashioned, foolish, for Two knew his own lack in comparison to Merlin Prime. But still, he would endeavor to serve his liege, even with his death, if required. That was his honor, the purpose of his existence. Life had been an exercise in waiting until such a time as he could be useful. The time of stagnation had come to a close. Now, Two would show his king how far, how well Two could serve him.

 

That blissful thought carried him into slumber.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbetad. Screw ups are all my own.


	3. 03: Swadhisthana

 

 

 

It is not invisibility, but then, outside of that affirmation, One has not bothered to discover what it is that renders him unseen when he does not wish to be viewed. Magic, certainly, but that force itself is too arcane to be truly understood or sufficiently explained by anyone yet living, except perhaps the source. That it simply _is_ , unquantifiable, unexplainable, undeniable is all there is to know. That they seem to be some of the ever dwindling few that wield these abilities, the other copies accept.

It sometimes troubles One.

Yet he uses his limited cadre of skills when needed.

The security feeds did not pick him up as he moved through Tintagel after several hours' quiet deliberation during which Pendragon was cleaned by Two, and then left to rest. Two retired to central control to carry on his duties.

When One approached Three's work room, voices drifted through the ajar door, the sound of computer keys underscoring them.

“ ...-will be displeased when he discovers what you've done.” The android was saying warningly.

Three was swift to respond. “Hey, without me? He'd work himself into a coma. Did you see his eyes? Bloodshot, he looked like he'd been on a bender. When was the last time he ate? Do you keep track? Uh, No. And it was yesterday. Half a protein bar.” The tones were not defensive, not apologetic. One knew about the Bio-Tracker Three implanted into Two. One made it his business to know those kinds of things, and his general taciturn nature seems to render him as invisible as his minimum of magic to the other copies. He accepted it. He made many of them uncomfortable, even if in secret some welcomed him into their beds. Shay had let loose she had gotten the Bio-Tracker for Three on a supply run. She was very talkative post coitally.

One had let Three carry on implanting it. It would do no harm, for now. The Bio-Tracker was perhaps somewhat objectionable, and One would absolutely never allow one inside himself, but he had seen Two work himself into near exhaustion. Three needed to take steps to ensure that Two was physically cared for, if he refused to care for himself. He did not listen to the copies, seeing as he tended to think them intellectually inferior.

Now, however, One stood outside the work room door, and caught sight of the scene within.

The android was sitting with many of his access panels open, wires and cables running from the ports to the CrackerHacker Uplink on Three's lap. Three was typing at a breakneck pace, the CHu reflecting blue light across his features twisted in concentration.

“He will still be very displeased. You are infringing on his independence. It is not your place to meddle.” the android said. Where he gained the capacity to chasten them, One could not have said. He would not encourage it, if given the choice.

“If I had a credit for every time someone said that to me -- which is you, by the way -- you'd be broke. You know. If you had money. Dammit, this thing is just not coming. Prime buried it deep. Gonna have to run a full Decrypt-Slugger. This is gonna take a while. “ Three cracked his knuckles.

One pushed the door the remainder of the way open before Three could begin hacking. Three and the android went still and silent. Three relaxed marginally when the door opened enough for him to see who it was. He let off a smile which was uncertain around the edges. One knew he made Three nervous.

“Uno, it's you. I thought-- ah, nevermind. Good to see you, have you been hiding in the water closet again?"

One did not so much as raise a brow.

"Err, right. Then. And stuff. You're here, that's great. Uh. What can I do for you?” Three rambled. A lot of wasted words.

One was not so altruistic with his communication.

“Come,” One said, pausing long enough for Three to get the idea, and knowing he would from past experience, when One would simply pick him up if he wasn't fleet enough. When Three hastened to move the CHu One turned and went down the corridor.

One heard Three excuse himself from the android as if it was more than appliance, then followed after, into the elevator. He is not quiet for long, however.

“Uh, where are we going? I mean, assuming we're going somewhere, which I guess we are, but Two asked me to have a look at Lance to help with our current quandary- Oh, the Med Lab, uh well . . . uh . . . you know Two doesn't want us to bug him, right? Besides that, he knocked him out. Sedative. ”

Two had not moved Pendragon far, only to one of the invalid rooms. He could be seen sleeping through the window on the door. One had tried it already, and found it locked. Unnecessary dramatics. There was nothing wrong with Pendragon. He was fit and healthy. It would hardly behoove the powers to send back an ailing savior, if savior is what Pendragon is.

“Open it,” One said to Three, his eyes on the inert figure through the little window.

“Uhh . . .” Three splayed a hand through his hair, making it stick up oddly. “Look, I mean -- Not that I can't, because I clearly am the computer wizard, but, Two doesn't want us in there until he's decided some stuff, you know? He's like, quarantined Arthur until he decides how to deal with everything since you have to admit we're kind of a lot to deal with on -- ohh fuck.”

One had grasped Three gently by the back of the neck. It took only the merest impulse of muscle to drag Three toward the door. The fingers had been warning enough, and Three had lowered his head and drew up his shoulders against the hard press that warned refusal would not be taken well.

“Open it.” One repeated. He let up his hold some, so his fingers rested lightly on the warm skin, soft hairs, tight tendons. Loose, but he could so easily tighten that grip.

“Right, yeah, open sesame coming right up . . . ” Three gave a nervous laugh, then pulled out his smaller uplink from a pocket. He snapped a cord in to the door panel, then began typing. “I mean, he's asleep, it's not like -- you're just doing the stalker thing, right? Watch him? Yeah. Okay. I mean, I totally would, if Two hadn't given me this job, you know? I think someone should be with him when he wakes up anyway. It would suck to wake up alone, so your keeping him company is a good thing. Maybe you could work on not scowling so much, though? That would kind of be a bummer to wake up to.”

One heard the door disengage locks underneath Three's prattle. Three made a weak little ta da noise, then unplugged his uplink. One pulled him away, giving a small shove with fingertips so Three staggered back a few feet.

“Yeah, well,” Three said as he gained his balance and put the uplink away. “You're welcome.” Just the smallest portion of bite in the tones.

One ignored it, and stepped inside the invalid room, closing the door behind him.

There was the quiet whispering whirr of the machines functioning, the hum that was Tintagel, but above it there was only the sound of respiration.

Pendragon looked much the same as he had on the stretcher, only clean, diminished by the removing of his armor. Just a man lying there, clean of dirt.

One pulled a chair from where it sat pressed against the wall, shifting it to a corner from where he could view the whole room as well as the window in the door. Better position to keep watch from. Also, it was under the security camera, and therefore he could remain unseen for the duration.

One sat.

One waited.

One was good at both of these things. He'd once waited for two hours unmoving so as not to give his position away to a target.

It was before Pendragon stirred, but eventually he did. First his sleep shifted to a more restless motion and not the sluggish serenity of the sedated. In that stage, he did not find true relaxation. One suspected Pendragon dreamed, and that not all of his dreams were pleasant. He was fitful. His limbs twitched, the fingers of his sword hand flexing for want of a weapon.

When he neared a feverish level, One stood and moved to the bedside. He intended to rouse Pendragon, but when he looked into the face he saw wakefulness approaching without aide.

He waited some more.

Pendragon cracked open his eyes. The lashes fluttered as he looked at the ceiling. Uncomprehending. In a rush his features changed with alarm, and he gripped at his abdomen, casting the blankets aside to ruck up his shirt to bare his torso. His breath was fast and frantic, expression puzzled and upset at the same time.

The hoisted shirt revealed a thin line of scar tissue, a shade paler than his skin. Arthur ran his fingers over it with careful exploration. One watched. It must have been the deathblow Mordred smote him with Clarent, now healed into a memory.

Pendragon's face became an expression of wonder as he fingered the mark, then poked the flesh around it. Then he laid a hand over his heart and smiled the relief and joy of living when death had been expected.

He finally looked up at One.

“Merlin . . .” Pendragon breathed the name out, clearly relieved, the smile lapsing to something contained. He flopped back onto the bed and ran a hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut.

“I thought I was dead.” He laughed then, a sound One did not hear humor in. Relief, amazement, yes, but no true humor as Arthur's fingers found the scar again, and traced the altogether too neat shape of it.

Pendragon rolled his head to look at One. He smirked, but his eyes were soft and thankful. One knew the affection in the blue eyes was not for him. When Pendragon looked at him he didn't really see One, and so gave him the affection due the source. The others would have been glad to take it, the rightful heirs of that love. One wondered if the smile should move him too, for he felt no particular pull towards the intimate expression. It was a smile. Just as Arthur was a man.

“There was no need to shave your head in mourning, Merlin. Apparently you succeeded: you saved me.” Pendragon raised his arms up, stretching. One heard a pop of bone.

“It makes you look ridiculous, by the way. Particularly the ears,” Pendragon said, the tail of a yawn distorting the words. “Where am I? Is there a chamber pot? Has Guinevere been sent for?” He rattled off the words, and then stretched once more before kicking the blankets aside and gaining his feet tentatively. One watched the experimental steps, unmoving from his position. He saw the steps falter as Pendragon turned and grasped the metal bar at the foot of the bed to steady his legs. A new emotion settled over his features as Pendragon got a good look at the room. A room that was not stone, nor wood nor daub and waddle. A room without windows or ornamentation, a room unlike any he would have seen before.

“Where are we? Is this Avalon?” Pendragon said, then turned to One with brows raised. “Well?”

He was all expectancy.

But One was not the source. One was not made for such domesticity.

“I am not your servant,” One said.

Pendragon took it like a blow, stepping back. He recovered quickly, however. “Of course -- with you being a -- since you're the way you are, it does change a few things."

Pendragon adjusted his physical stance, much as he was evidently also doing mentally. Upon some determination to act naturally, he cleared his throat. "What's amiss? You look like the back end of a cat again.”

His unanswered expectancy became uncertainty. "This isn't like any keep I know. Are you sure we're safe here?"

Words, One knew, would be insufficient.

“Come.”

One stalked across the room and grasped Pendragon's wrist. Pendragon clearly didn't anticipate either being bodily handled or that there would be strength behind it. Pendragon resisted, but One was easily strong enough to pull the freshly awoken king along behind him. Pendragon hadn't noticed how dense One was, how One found solace in the brute muscular strength the others scorned. They had other skills, they had magic. One had only a single, feeble ability, of eluding when he did not wish to be found. It meant the remainder of the time he had to rely on physicality. Pendragon had not really looked at him to see how altered he was from the source. Not even death had moved his tendency for self involvement.

One tapped the panel to open the door, ignoring Pendragon's muffled noises of protest until the door slid open automatically. He ceased pulling at One's grip as they took to the corridor and then fell silent, letting One pull him along through metal halls, past half open doors with contents he could not have understood and whirring mechanisms he might not have believed.

By the time they reached the observation deck and One glanced back, Pendragon was pale. Frightened and yet not. Confused. Perhaps mistaking the technological for the arcane.

One pulled him to the massive windows and pointed to the universe beyond, to the vast star studded darkness that went on forever.

The tendons that had been tight with tension went slack in One's grip. Pendragon was shocked.

One released him. Pendragon was drawn forward, stupefied, and laid his hands on the barrier to stare at the universe.

“But . . . how . . . where?” his voice was stretched and hoarse.

“Among the stars,” One said. He watched, his arms crossed before him.

Pendragon fell silent again. There was a faint wag to his head as he looked left and right, taking in the expansive view in its entirety.

Eventually he looked over his shoulder at One with amazement. “Gaius said you were the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth. I didn't believe it. You have such power?”

“No. This is not the work of magic. It is science. Such as men might have journeyed to a neighboring kingdom in your time, in this time men go amongst the stars.” One said.

This confused Pendragon, for his brows drew together. He turned to look out the window once more.

“I don't understand.” His voice was small, as all voices were when the universe spanned before them. Diminished by the size and beauty that was creation.

Even a king, _The_ King, could be humbled.

Perhaps One should have showed him mercy, delicacy, but that was the purview of the others.

“You did die. Your time has passed, centuries. This is the world of the future.”

Pendragon turned to him once again.

One approached. He grasped Pendragon's head in his hands, digits threading through the soft blond hair until the pads of his fingers touched scalp. Then he drew Pendragon's head close to his own so their brows almost touched. He stared into the blue eyes, took in the smell of Pendragon under the antiseptic. He looked handsome, confused, lost.

“The others will be gentle. The others will be kind. You are a warrior. Kindness is not mercy; truth is utmost.” One said softly.

Pendragon didn't understand, but he was trying to. His hands automatically caught One by the wrists, but did not resist, only held, braced.

“This is the twenty ninth century. You fell from wounds at Camlan three thousand years ago. Everything you know has long since gone.”

Pendragon's face went paler. He tried to shake One off.

“Merlin-- this isn't funny, dammit!” He said, his voice sharp.

“I am not Merlin.”

“What? Of course you are. I mean, you've gone a bit odd, but you're clearly--”

“I am not Merlin. I am One. Merlin has gone.”

“Stop lying!” Pendragon shouted, and they divested themselves of each other. For a moment before they separated, their limbs were a confusion of fevered pull and push, both drawing the other nearer and then changing and trying to reject until they ripped apart. Pendragon danced backwards bare footed, caught between bluster and terror. One knocked aside a chair from a cluster of seats meant for viewing, sending it clattering.

One fixed his mouth in a line once he restored his balance.

“You've spent your life lying to me, every moment together a lie! I command it to stop now! I am still your king, Merlin, you owe me the truth. Enough of this ridiculousness. Three thousand years? No man could sleep that long. No man could live that long. How could we both be here if that were true? If you're so loyal as you claim, stop lying and tell me what is going on!”

Words desperate. Appealing to One to let it not be. Only One hadn't the power to change it, not even the source did. That's why they were here. Destiny was the cruelest mistress of them all.

“Three thousand years have passed. Camelot is gone. You have resurrected. You are the Once and Future King,” One repeated.

Pendragon's hands flexed into fists, but he did not move. He stared into One's eyes. One stared back.

Into the pregnant silence the door whirred open and Three rushed in, his eyes whirling frantically. They scratched over One, and then settled into a wide eyed stare at Pendragon.

“Oh thank fuck!” Three sighed, but then dawning filled his expression. “Oh -- fuckity fuck I've cursed in front of you -- three times! Oh. A certain serendipity to that, isn't it? God, that's stupid. Oh. Well. Hello your Majesty! See, I didn't think you'd be up, well I kind of hoped you were up, the other option was somnophilia and I was a bit too scared to contemplate that, but thankfully I don't have to because, well, here you are. Awake. With One. And looking like you might puke."

Three ran a hand through his hair. "Two is going to kill me.” He took a breath, but quickly made peace with the possibility. He then effected a curtsey, holding the end of his T-shirt out like a skirt for the beginning of his speech. By the end he had his hands caged over the top of his head.

Pendragon was too busy staring between them to make any adequate response to the jabber.

“I'm Three.” Three stepped forward to offer a hand to Pendragon.

Pendragon withdrew flat against the window.

Three closed his hand, letting it drop to his side. He sighed again, looking at One.

“Didn't get around to explaining that bit, did you?” He said, betraying a rare note of chiding. Then he threw his hands up, exasperated. “What am I talking about? You? Explain anything? Cold day in hell. Between you and Seven it's a wonder we don't --”

He exhaled, closed his eyes. Then he reopened them and looked only at Pendragon.

“Look, Arthur, you don't need to panic. Panicking will help no one. It only leads to girly type shrieking, which will be of no service to anyone, however funny it will be in retrospect.”

One watched Pendragon, whose eyes were pinned on Three. The edges of him relaxed as Three spoke. This made sense. The source has always said how much Three resembled himself in his youth. Three and Four. Pendragon would find him familiar. Reassuring. He clearly does, even if he ventured no closer.

“I'm called Three, One and I are brothers. We're . . . Merlin's children.”

“Children.” Pendragon said, a bit weak.

“There's a strong family resemblance.” Three said. Then he smiled.

Pendragon swallowed and nodded, glancing back and forth between One and Three. One could see the moment Pendragon accepted it, perhaps not as truth, but as something solid to grip. For now.

“Do you know when you are?” Three tried carefully.

Pendragon hesitated, then set his gaze on One.

By now, One had retreated to lean against the wall by one of the doors behind the fallen chairs. This wasn't his strength. He had done the hard work, the shattering, the thing none of them would want to do. He was content to let the others sweep up the pieces and fashion them back together.

“He said it was the twenty-ninth century.” Pendragon said in wavering tones. One could hear the entreaty. _Let it not be so. Let it be a lie._

“Yes. 2968.” Three's voice dripped with sympathy.

Pendragon doubled over with a sharp inhale and a despairing sound.

One left without a backwards look.

 

 

Shay returned in Gringolet some hours later, with Four in tow after a supply run. One removed himself from his haunt in the lower bowels of Tintagel for the cargo bay. There he assisted in the unloading, the steady labor of hauling crates and barrels, boxes and drums of water, fuel, parts and food a soothing affair. One enjoyed the simplicity that was his body meeting every demand he made, of responding, lifting, bearing as he commanded, whatever distance. He unloaded alone, since Shay and Four went directly the ship was landed and secured to see Pendragon.

In marked crates One found his own shopping list had been filled. Before making a supply run, Shay always asked for wants. She had filled One's needs to the letter, and then over.

Although One knew it defied the other's understanding, he and Shay had an accord. Perhaps certain strands of her DNA were altered to produce something that was not an absolute copy, like the Merlins were, but Shay was not so different from Gwaine. She was a knight, deep down, and knew that magic would not be sufficient for victory in this world. She knew that strength was of great import, and in these days strength was found in weapons.

It was not pretty, but in war there was death. Death was a necessity. A blessing, even. Two thought he could double down for a siege. Thought it could be bloodless, this return. As if the Once and Future King would be returned to world for anything that could be tidy or simple. Or without sacrifice.

Two had forgotten that Pendragon had never hidden, would never hide. He would fight. He would have need of someone who could oblige him in that score. There was only One. Perhaps Shay, if the need was dire, and the android was programmed for combat. However, they would be poor replacements for a cadre of Camelot's finest knights. So One would be the single fighter for Pendragon to command.

There were twelve boxes of arms, most of them strictly illegal for civilian use; pistols, explosives in the mid and high grade, jackers, catchtraps, every filthy and useful weapon for a vicious arsenal. Pendragon would not care for some of them, but this was the color of war, now. One would have to begin training him at once to bring a keen warrior of antiquity to an acceptable level of deadliness for the modern age.

They all thought, because he was here, they were saved.

It was laughable. Impossible, when the merest logic was brought against the notion.

Pendragon was ignorant of modern warfare. He was more likely to be mowed down by some strange device he could not identify within the first hour of a campaign, than to win it.

One made several trips, and bore off the crates of armaments to his own work room, where he stored and fine tuned devices to bring death. It was his particular gift, and to become a weapon-smith to facilitate it was only sensible.

Pendragon would need a replacement for his sword. While Four had spoken with awe of Excalibur's presence (and irritation that Seven was not letting it be seen and admired), and One would never deny the use of a blade in close combat, Pendragon would need another weapon. A sword would not be sufficient, it would be useless in the close corridors that characterized most ships and stations. There was some light in that the source had always spoken of Pendragon's hunting prowess, his capacity to shoot a crossbow and throw knives. This spoke well of his aim, and rifles might not be to alien for Pendragon to grasp their function.

In his workroom, One barred and bolted the door. Electronic locks were useless with Three loose.

He unpacked the hoard of weaponry and stowed it securely, adding the items to the inventory of his arsenal inside his head. Except for the component parts. These he lined up on the work bench, every piece and fitting so he could see all he had to work with.

Pendragon must always bear a weapon made by a Merlin, one of unparallelled strength and grace.

At least in that regard Pendragon would not be disappointed.

 


	4. 04: Anhata

That Arthur's apparent mini-breakdown was, according to Five, a good thing, was a little bit beyond Three. There weren't many occasions he thought that much snot was a good thing. Not that Arthur didn't totally deserve to break down. After all, Camelot, Guinevere, Leon, Albion hell, the age of swords, had passed long before Three was born. To Arthur it was yesterday, two days ago. It was his universe and he had been in no rush to change it. Now it wasn't.

That was a little heartbreaking, seeing Arthur so lost. None of Dad's stories featured a lost Arthur. Arthur always had his pith helmet on first to head into the Jungles of the Unknown.

Also he didn't seem to know about the whole Once-and-Future bit. Maybe Three had known that Arthur didn't know, but he didn't know in the way of knowing when it's a real thing that causes someone upset because WHY was he back from the grave three thousand years later?

Three kind wondered who was going to tell Arthur that, when the time came. One had already broken the immediate hard news. It seemed sort of shitty to make One give all the suck information to Arthur. Relaying unfortunate news to Arthur should be a burden they all had bear equally.

Arthur refused to believe he was in the future (to him) at first, sputtering again and again that it wasn't so, it was all untrue, but even he didn't seem to believe his protestations. The denials eventually stopped and he moved into shouting, violence and sobbing. He demanded they bring the real Merlin to him, that they stay away, that they give him his sword, that they had to do what he said because he was the King of Camelot! Only, of course he was King Arthur Pendragon, and the fact that nobody wanted to hurt him seemed lost to Arthur. When they didn't oblige any of his demands he trashed the invalid room, attacking the foreign machines until One appeared from somewhere and with Seven's help pinned him down so Two could sedate him. Three had watched on security, trying not to cry.

The second time Arthur woke up he did not rampage around like an angry rhinoceros, but glowered at them all with ghastly intent. In fact, he was so much calmer that his sudden bolting out of bed and escape down the corridor left Two clearly nonplussed. There was a brief debate about whether letting him hide somewhere and recover himself was worth the risk of any damage he might do to any of the unfamiliar ship's mechanisms.

Three would never say that Arthur looked undignified when he was returned hauled over Lance's shoulder, but the notion might have flirted at the back of his mind. That and Arthur looked scandalized over his treatment. And a little ill when he beheld the face of his delivery man as soon as Lance parked him back in the bed. Arthur stared at Lance with despairing horror.

“You're dead,” Arthur had said, while Two took advantage and locked Arthur's wrists into restraints.

“You're dead. I'm dead. This is hell. Hell.” Arthur had flopped back on the blankets and tried to curl in on himself, away from all the Merlin hands.

At least Five was here now. Five always knew what to do.

Five had arrived in his little med-vessel, docked and came right up to give Arthur the once over. Arthur had not been terribly excited to be poked at by yet another Merlin in the medical uniform of an Imperial doctor, but he endured it with his jaw clenched. At this stage he refused to speak to anyone, though Three thought this took a lot of effort. When Arthur clearly wanted to snap or yell his jaw clenched, eventually so hard a vein popped out on his forehead. He didn't cave, though.

Three was kind of stoked that apparently The Once and Future King did not like needles. He didn't bitch about the inoculations, but there was something about the way his blue eyes watched the looming needle that had made Three want to giggle. Death by sword and Arthur was hesitant about a little needle! But he didn't giggle. He felt too heartbroken for Arthur.

Bed rest, Five said. Mental trauma.

Huh. No shit.

 

“You're not Merlin's sons,” Arthur said suddenly.

Three hadn't been aware Arthur was awake. That is to say, for a guy who had been asleep for three thousand years, he spent a lot of time sleeping. Five said it was healing or whatever, but Three kind of thought you need to be awake to get on with healing. Apparently not.

Arthur woke up for bits and pieces after his last freak out, but carried on with his silent treatment. Even though the cat was out of the bag that everyone was wearing the same face (plus Lancelot), Three had put his foot down. One Merlin in the room at a time. Otherwise it just got overwhelming. He also refused to sit in the invalid room, the lights turned to the dimmest setting which Three thought resembled candlelight. It made the bed seem even more like an altar, laid with the body of a savior. That made Three uncomfortable. It was just Arthur. Arthur who used to make Dad scrub the floors, Arthur who was, okay, yeah, a king, but also a prat, a slob, a dollophead, a clotpole, a regular man. Not Jesus. Not remotely Jesusy.

So Three played Super Mario Brothers 3 to pass the time. He was working his way through Nintendo's ancient games. But he wasn't going to turn down the bed and speak in hushed whispers, or call Arthur 'Your Majesty' even when Arthur was snoring like a congested water buffalo.

It turned out watching Arthur sleep was kind of a thing. Three would have felt weird about it, except it seemed to be everybody's thing. Almost everyone had surreptitiously tapped into the security feed to watch Arthur. Three could tell. He'd hacked Tintagel's system for the first time when he was six. There was nothing that went on in the system he didn't know about.

Five was watching from his room, Seven from Fiducia, Four in his bunk. Two was connected from Tintagel's control center until Three juiced the chip again. Oh, Two would eventually get wise to the fact that he had a Bio Tracker, and he'd throw the mother of all bitch fits, but if Three didn't stimulate the production of melatonin or make his stomach start grumbling at tremendous volumes, Two would work himself to death. Three was positive. They'd just find him collapsed, starved out of his prissy jumpsuit. Nothing but cheekbones and knobby knees.

Three located One last since he was the only one not tapped in, all tucked in Tintagel's water processing room where he angsted to the sounds of water being filtered like his name should be Dante and his black nail polish would be a sign of the blackness of his soul, except he was basically in the sewage closet, and Three had been in there. It didn't smell, but it did sound like a stomach. How could he angst to the dulcet squishes of digestion?

Weird though they were, Three did love his brothers.

Still, Arthur's question out of the blue made him drop his eyes back down to his CHu, shooting for nonchalance as he saved and closed his game. Probably failing epically, but it was the attempt that mattered.

“How do you figure that?” Three said.

Arthur was staring at him from the bed. Three thought he looked less pallid than before, but also more sad. More beaten down.

“You don't just resemble him, the lot of you. It would be impossible for all of you to look exactly like him, but even if you were, the way you behave . . .” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “But you're not his children. What woman would bear Merlin that many sons?”

Arthur quieted then.

Three looked at the screen of his CHu without really seeing it. He deliberated. On hand A, any exchange that didn't end in a king-style tantrum would be a plus, and so far Arthur seemed in control of himself. On Hand B, Three could say something to send him into a tantrum at any moment. On hand C, there were things Arthur just had to know. The days of hiding were over. On Hand D, should all those things be said now? Was now the time? And over on hand E...it would all come out in the wash anyway. His conscience weighed on him. The truth was usually, not always, but usually, the best idea.

Three peeked at Arthur. Arthur was staring at the little bruises on his hand where he had had an IV for a while before he woke up and flipped out then tore it free. As Three watched Arthur flexed the fingers.

“You're right. We're not,” Three offered. He tapped a few keys and blocked the security feed with some scrolling text.

_Due to technical difficulty your stalking mechanism will be temporarily offline. We apologize for the inconvenience and are working hard to restore this feed. Well, not really. We question the wisdom of our labors because it is morally questionable not to mention just tacky to wank to an emotionally distraught invalided King. And we know you were wanking. We see all. Go read a book. Don't you all have hobbies? And don't come lumbering in here. Give him some peace!_

There. That should give Arthur some time during which he only had one Merlin peering at him quizzically.

Arthur rolled his head to look at him. Three smiled encouragingly. He felt like Arthur needed encouragement.

Arthur said. “Which one are you?”

“I'm Three.”

Arthur frowned. Again. “Why don't you have proper names?”

“Can you think of a more suitable name for me other than Merlin?” Three said, shrugging. “It's who I am. Merlin. I'm just the third Merlin. So, Three. I don't mind it, being one of many. It means I'm never alone. ” Like Dad was.

Arthur was staring at him, his blue eyes intense. Three liked his eyes. Dad had never described them properly, not properly. He hadn't explained how their eyes, the eyes of the Merlins were blue like the sea, deep and mysterious and neverendingly dark and secret. Arthur had eyes like the sky with the sun high in it. A sky that covered everyone, excluding no one, gracing them all with sunshine and even rain for hungry crops. A sky that was high and clear, and made you think of hope. Arthur's sky eyes.

“Tell you what,” Three said, closing his CHu and setting it aside with the same simplicity he wished he could put his thoughts about Arthur's sky eyes with. “If you promise not to stampede I'll unlock those things and you can get dressed. We'll make you something to eat, all normal. I can explain some stuff to you and then this won't seem so scary.”

Arthur did a thing with his brows. It was a very small thing, but a thing which said 'if I must, though past experiences have warned me this will not end well'. A small but very expressive thing. It gave Three some hope.

“No jello,” Three swore. Arthur had objected to that as well. Heartily. In fact, there was still a jello slime mark on the wall where it hit from the tray he'd been brought and summarily rejected.

Arthur's mouth quirked just fractionally. He nodded. That gave Three more hope, because the mouth quirk said 'I absolutely refuse to find you funny'.

“Great!” Three beamed at him because it was as close to a smile as he suspected Arthur was going to get for a long while yet, and hopped to his feet.

“Promise not to loose your head? Or lie to me, then try and hit me upside the head? I've got magic, remember? You'd make a very adorable bijon-poo, which I will not hesitate to turn you into, if you break your promise,” Three said as he came to the bedside. He couldn't actually transform anything, his magic was limited to making things float very tremulously, but Arthur would make an adorable bijon-poo with his little disgruntled dog face, fuffy hair and stubby tail.

As threats went, Three thought that one was spiffy. Unfortunately Arthur was just looking at him with a mixture of bemusement and puzzlement. Of course. He had no idea what a bijon-poo was. The world of dog breeding was alien.

“It's a sort of small, yappy dog with lots of fluffy, wavy white hair,” Three said. He was giving the general dimensions of the dog in question with his hands which only got him another look from Arthur. Three fancied he was getting rather good at reading Arthur's minute expressions. This look said 'you are possibly retarded', only, in old timey speak; 'you are probably a simpleton and I despair of you'. Yeah. That. Three went to code the restraints open.

Although all this simpleton eyeing got Arthur got a good look at his shirt which Three, what with one thing and the other, had just slept in.

“What are you wearing?” Arthur said.

Three pinched him, the appalled look on Arthur's face for the informal intimacy was a balm to the wardrobe insult. Three had picked this shirt out specially!

“Ungrateful prat!” Three scolded. “I am clearly the most agreeable of your options now. Small silly dog threats, remember? And I'm going to make you breakfast and teach you about pancakes. The least you could do is not make fun of my wardrobe, and this shirt? Vintage.”

Arthur squinted at the shirt, mouthed the words 'Hail to the King, Baby', and stared at the picture of Bruce Campbell, chainsaw arm and all, with confusion. Then he looked at Three with growing suspicion.

“Look, it was the sentiment I was going for, not the chainsawing.” Three said after an eye roll.

Arthur lifted a brow, but didn't ask what chainsawing was. When Three freed the cuffs, Arthur lifted his hands and rubbed his wrists carefully. He peeled back the blankets and levered himself onto his feet, grimacing at the cold floor. Three drifted over to attached lavatory.

“Do you have to, you know, go? I mean, you haven't yet today, you must be bursting. Five said a catheter would scare the shit out of you.”

Arthur came to the bathroom door and eyed the toilet. Then he looked at Three warily.

Three gave him a brief demonstration of all the buttons and processes of going to the toilet and washing hands, then stood back to look at Arthur's tense face. He reviewed it once more, then withdrew. He occupied himself fetching Arthur some clothes when the door clicked shut with Arthur inside. Getting dressed might do Arthur some good. And keep Three from lingering around the door and eavesdropping like a creeper. Not for gross reasons! To be sure Arthur was okay, was all.

“My mouth feels odd,” Arthur said when he exited the washroom a few minutes later.

Three had just laid out some trousers, a shirt and a jacket dyed to match exact Camelot red. He saw Arthur's eyes stray to it and soften. It made part of Three go gooey, though he pretended not.

“That's your dental work, I expect,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Dental work?”

Three indicated to Arthur to remove his shirt. He did, after a moment's confusion which is clearly borne of him usually defrocking himself first and not being told to strip. Still, he handed Three his shirt. Three accepted it, pitched it in the laundry chute and held out the fresh one.

“Yeah, best not to think about it yet. Does it feel better in there?”

Arthur's brow furrowed as he slowly donned the shirt. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and then nodded. "Different. My tooth doesn't hurt."

“Go with that, then. Don't ask follow-up questions. The less known about dentistry the better.” Three smiled and reached out to adjust the shirt, to snap some of the buttons until it hung properly on Arthur. He didn't think about how all the warm flesh felt under his hands because that would be kind of creepy. And he's trying to avoid the creepy, the stalkery, and the weirdo pervert. It'd been really easy all the previous parts of his life.Arthur was presenting a challenge.

He finished dressing Arthur in quiet, then Three gathered all the other dirty things to throw into the laundry chute.

Arthur was somber on this walk through the halls this time. Three made sure to go slow, no sudden moves in case Arthur had another freak out. Not that Arthur seemed that on the edge any more. Now he just looked grim. Pallid and grim. As if this was something he had no choice but to face, so face it he would.

He didn't speak again until Merlin had parked him on a stool in the kitchen with cup of hot herbal tea (no need to caffeinate the poor S.O.B.). Three was mixing up pancake batter, with sausages already cooking away on the stove.

“Is it magic?” Arthur asked, breaking their quiet.

“What? Pancakes? No. Club Soda. It makes them all light. You want blueberries? I guess you don't know, do you? Look, we'll do half plain, half blueberry so you get full pancake effect. Chocolate chip pancakes might kill you with awesome, so you'll have to build up Pancake and Waffle Tolerance first. PWT. Wow. That's kind of a crap acronym. What about --”

“You all,” Arthur cut in, gesturing, and rather visibly restraining himself from being temperamental about it. “Are you magic? Like, changelings or something?”

“Oh, the Merlins?” Three said, and then wished he hadn't. Well, not like that. Not like he was referring to himself in the third person, like they were things and not people.

Arthur's shoulders went all tight.

“Yes. The Merlins.” he said.

“Ah.” Three made a bigger production out of breaking eggs than was strictly needed to buy some time. Then he measured out the club soda, and checked on the pan, adding a little more butter. Then he caught Arthur's face in a sneak look and he knew Arthur wasn't fooled by his stalling tactics in the least, which was kind of a bummer.

“No.” Three sighed “Well, maybe the tiniest bit, but mostly it's science so advanced it would just seem like magic to you. We're . . . do you know anything about horticulture?”

Arthur's blank look told Three not remotely. Well, it wasn't like Three couldn't guess that, but still. You could never tell what sort of rogue information was zooming around someone's brain.

Three poured out dollops of batter onto the griddle.

“Okay, this is still the best dark ages example I can think of off the top of my head, so I'm gonna go with it. You know how you can take a part of a plant -- well, some plants, but example stands -- and then bury it and it will grow? Since it didn't grow from a seed, it isn't a completely new plant, like a baby plant. It's a copy of the old plant you took the piece from.”

He turned to look at Arthur, armed with a pancake turner.

Arthur appeared to be deep in thought. “When Morgana came to Camelot . . . she had cuttings from her mother's garden.” he said slowly, eyes unfocused with memory. “She buried them. They grew.”

Three flourished a happy swish with the turner. “Just like that. We're cuttings. Dad -- uh, Merlin took his blood and grew us from that. And a bit extra. The proper term is a clone, but we're magic clones, which is kind of not the same thing at the same time as it is.”

“No,” Arthur agreed with the defeated sound of someone who did not actually know the difference. His hands left the untouched cup and rubbed over his face.

Three decided to let Arthur ruminate for a while. He had a feeling growing men from blood with a little magic was kind of close to crazy sounding to Arthur's medieval brain. So, Three heated the syrup (the real stuff. Two was such a fusspot about eating healthy and real) and turned the pancakes.

Eventually Three set down two plates with stacks of pancakes, two regular, two blueberry and some sausage. Arthur watched him pick up his silverware and cut the food. Usually Three just rolled them up and dunked them in the syrup, but it seemed like a faux-passe to teach Arthur bad manners he would then have to unlearn in polite company. Plus, king. Arthur mimicked him, more sparingly pouring syrup than Three did. Three watched him take a slow cautious bite of the pancakes, chew, and swallow. He nodded, then settled into eating at a steadier pace.

“Where's the sixth?” Arthur asked a few bites in.

Three's fork only stuttered a moment, but Arthur caught it. He looked at Three expectantly and elaborated. “The big one is One, Two wears the white, you're Three, Four has to be the one who held hands with the woman, because Five was the physician and Seven has the beard. No one has mentioned a Six.”

“He's gone. We don't talk about him.” Three said, trying to make it sound unimportant.

“What of Lancelot? Is . . . ”

“He's not a clone. He's a machine, he's metal and plastic inside, no blood and guts. He's sort of like a helper or a servant, but he's not a person. He's a creation. Kind of like the stove, you know? The stove's job is to cook. Lance's job is to be like a human, and to interface with electronics. He's got a lot of memories though, Dad made him so he'd have a friend, mostly. “

Arthur accepted it with a faint gritting of the jaw. “Why did he make you?” he asked next.

Three chewed. “Dunno.” He smeared another forkful of pancake around in a pool of syrup. “I mean, well, didn't think to ask, did we? Not at first. When you're a kid, you don't notice weird things if it's all you know, and all we knew was Tintagel and each other. Later, I mean, yeah, when we could really understand about all the things Dad told us and we saw the world, and it was all different faces. Except, by the time it occurred to us to ask questions Dad had gone. We have some conclusions, but nothing absolute.” Not yet.

Arthur was looking at Three.

Three shrugged. “He made us for you, probably.”

That stayed Arthur a little. He sat with that for a time, and then he devoured the rest of the pancakes before attending to the sausage with more care.

“Where is Merlin?” is what Arthur asked when he finally spoke again, and in a tone that suggested if Arthur found Dad he'd be giving him a firm talking to.

“Don't know. No, seriously, we don't. He just left us one day.”

Arthur frowned. “Is he dead?”

“I don't think so. I mean, nothing can kill him. Nothing has killed him, and he's gotten into some scrapes over the last three thousand years. He used to tell us these gruesome stories about, like, the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and how he got crushed by a building, ooo, or when they tortured him in the Spanish Inquisition. We loved those stories. Fucking sick, most of them, but to a bunch of boys? We loved it, especially how his body would always put itself back together again -- except this one time someone stole his arm -- well, some waste men were cleaning up debris and they swept up his arm before he could get to it and he had to save it before it was incinerated as biological waste during one of the civil wars because he didn't think his arm would regrow. The Merlins, we're not the same, we're not eternal, not like that, we've got more of a Tolkien elf thing going; we'll live forever unless something kills us. Dad isn't allowed to die.” Three rambled. Then he smiled at Arthur.

Arthur promptly leaned over and puked up his breakfast.

 

 

Personally? Three thought it was unfair. He didn't know Arthur would respond so badly to the richness of food or the fact that Dad was some sort of eternal being. Apparently that was something else that someone hadn't told Arthur, and after the puking he was angry, but only briefly. He just seemed unspeakably weary when led to bed by Five after a med scan.

Three had been banished to his work room. And by banished, the others just shook their heads at him like he was touched, even though Three couldn't have said for sure they would have done better. He'd been shouting apologies after Arthur until Seven dragged him off. Which Three felt was unnecessary. What was he going to do, force feed Arthur doughnuts? Still, he felt hugely bad about it.

And the fact that the laundry detergent in the clothes irritated Arthur's skin and chafed his nipples could not actually be Three's fault. How was he supposed to know his highness had delicate nips? Oddly enough, if Dad knew it, he had not passed it on amongst the other Arthur minutiae, like the love of pickled eggs or the way he liked his bath drawn.

Three set up in his work room with a sympathetic Lance, and was back to his job recovering files for the next few hours. While Lance's proximity to magic had sent some mystic monkey wrench into the LANCE IS ONLY A MACHINE theory, Lance's processes were all four hundred year old newbie robotics technology, and Dad was never good with a computer. Three had located his dad's expansive files and information on Camelot and its residents during the period Arthur and Dad had been Manservant and Prince/King with ease. They weren't terribly well hidden. Three copied them over to his CHu for future viewing.

There was, however, one big file. It was deeply and adeptly hidden. Not Dad's usual style. Three would have missed it, except he was just that good. He was currently trying to pry it out gently without hurting Lance.

To everyone else, when Lance had his ports open like something had torn him apart, it was weird and off putting and people tended to avert their eyes. To Three? It was life in terms other than biology. He had Lance hooked up by a number of cables and was venting the injustice of his banishment and general frustration on a good hack. It wasn't working really well.

Lance was trying to be polite while Three probed into him, but he didn't like it, so he shifted around uncomfortably, culminating in Three giving a sloppy command that made Lance spasm. Shite, Three was possibly not being as absolutely delicate as he could be. Now he felt like an ass.

Three sighed. “Look, why don't I shut you down while I do this, yeah?”

“I do need to recharge,” Lance confessed.

“Off you go, then. I'll upload you some new porn, yeah?” Three shot him a smile more for form's sake then actually feeling merry.

Lance blanched. “Please do not. The files you left last time were most . . . candid.”

“Biology squicking you out, boy? Alright, no porn. Just invasive mind surgery.”

Lance gave him a gentle look. He then slid his posture into the recharge position; feet flat on the floor, knees at right angles, hands braced on knees, posture straight as a line, head bent slightly. Lance's eyes shut, and the CHu registered that he had gone into recharge mode.

“Sweet Dreams, metal man.”

Three went to work. Just he and his CHu. Always reliable. He put on some music, loud, throbbing, something that would swallow his mind and send him into the zone. If he couldn't be useful tending Arthur, he'd be useful at data retrieval.

So he let himself become lost in the process of retrieving well buried information for the next few hours.


	5. 00: The Message from Merlin Prime

 

**Recording begins.**

Blue eyes. Straight at the camera.

_Arthur, if you're watching this, I know how things must be seem. Mad. Upside down. Inscrutable. I can't imagine how confused and lost you are. I'm sorry. It must be awful._

_But, if you are watching this it also means you're in good hands. The best hands. Mine. And that's probably confusing as well, in all honesty._

_I had a friend hide this message for me deep inside Lance with the DNA lock to be sure it was really you. I didn't want to leave you alone, not without something familiar to hold on to. I'm sure Three found this for you, though. He's always had a magic touch with computers. Not literally or anything, just . . . well. Three and machines just always got on. Just like Five and healing people, or Four and jokes, Seven and piloting . . . and being onry, Two and organizing, One has enough determination to talk the sky out of being blue, and Six and his heart . . ._

_I know they all look the same, and I know that must seem strange but please, Arthur, but, give them a chance. They're special. They're me. Parts of me. Like sons, only not. They are me. And like I was, they were made for you, just for you. They're yours._

_That's kind of jumping ahead._

_I have to go back before I can go forward._

Sigh. Rub the temples.

_I don't know where to start._

Expression lost, drifting, eyes wandering. Refocusing. Adjusting posture.

_I've recorded a lot of memories here, about my past, the things I've done and seen. Probably the only ones you should watch are those relating to Camelot. The rest is just posterity, really. Living in the past. I'm doing that a lot lately. They make me remember. When they want a story and then ask questions about it. Old memories come. Three thousand years is a lot of human history to remember. I thought some of it should be noted down. But don't listen to my history, Arthur. I can't stop you, but you shouldn't. It isn't always nice. It would only upset you, a lot of it._

_I have noted all records on Camelot for you. From the first day I arrived at the citadel to the end of Gwen's reign. Everything. So you'd know what became of Camelot, and of everyone who lived there. Leon. Percy. Gwaine. Gaius. Everyone. And so you'd know what happened before—how I . . .all the things you didn't see. Everything that happened behind your back. I figure you'd want to know._

_There's, Gods, so_ much _, Arthur. And so much you won't understand. You didn't get the chance to, there was no time to explain it, after you found out about me at Camlann, who I was and then we were riding like mad for Avalon . . . and then you were gone and I'd failed. But you don't even know what I'd failed at, and over the years I've obsessed about what I could have done to make it different, how I could have changed things to make it better, to spare your life._

_Sometimes I think it could have been glorious, if I hadn't been so young and naive. If I'd worked a little harder, made better choices, if I was wiser. You used to call me wise, back then, in unguarded moments, do you remember? I wasn't, really. I was just parroting back things I'd heard, saying what I hoped, believed and thought would be, painting my own hopes as fact. It wasn't wisdom. I didn't earn that for many years. Yet, I still think sometimes that if I'd done it this way, or if I'd done that differently, then who knows? Maybe I could have averted the worst of it._

_And sometimes, I think it was destined to be like this. That it didn't matter what any of us did, this was the inexorable outcome. As if someone wrote it all out before we'd even lived, and this was inevitable as the sun rising. We would walk the steps foretold, and all paths would lead here. As if we were nothing more than props in this terrible tragedy. A tragedy which forced you to bear repeated betrayal, Morgana vengeful insanity, Gwen unrelieved grief, Gaius loss and regret. And death. So much death. All that suffering decided before we took our first steps, for the pleasure of some twisted gods._

Sadness in the eyes. So much sadness Blue eyes haunted.

_I don't know any more, Arthur. I don't even know if it matters if it could have been changed. It's like circles. Circles of second guessing. Around and around and around...  
_

A humorless laugh. Rub the temples again. Hands slip to the knees, nervously knead the clothes.

_Yet, if you're here now, it's long since time you knew all the details of our lives. I owe you that much, to explain why you're here now. To tell you the truth. You'd need the truth.  
_

_I wish I could spare you this, Arthur, but I can't. But I want you to know how sorry I am. How often I did want to tell you the truth about me, about us, about prophecies. It's true, what I said then, the reasons I gave. I didn't want to be put to death, but I didn't want you to have to contemplate it more. I didn't want you to have to decide; uphold the law or break down everything you strove to uphold? Or, worse, defy your father. I never wanted to give you such a burden. I was there to serve you. How could I make you chose between your father and I? What friend would I be if I forced that upon you? Yes, the first years were hard, giving away credit for things, living in the shadows, pretending not to be what I was, pretending to be simple and stupid. Always dreaming about being publicly acknowledged, not as a criminal or conqueror or as Emrys. Just...Merlin. Merlin, who was your friend, who could do magic. Court Sorcerer, maybe, I imagined sometimes. Merlin who wasn't like you were taught, who wasn't evil or corrupted or destructive just because he had magic. Merlin who had magic and was a good man. Just Merlin. When magic would be accepted, innocents no longer slain. Peace._

_In time though, I saw that it was the way it had to be. That all that was done had to be in done secret. That I was never going to be anything more than a shadow, and that was for the best. I didn't want glory or public affirmation, not really.  
_

_And then? And then, like all lies, the time to tell the truth passed, and so the truth hurt more than the lie. That yet another person so near to you lied to you repeatedly, betrayed your trust. Sorcery right under your nose, for years. I couldn't hurt you like that, either._

_It always seemed there would be time to set things right. There wasn't, but it always --I always thought -- and then it was better to stay in the shadows. You didn't get hurt, that way. I could work as I needed to. I could do the things no one could see. Gaius and I. You can't imagine what we accomplished, and almost no one knew._

_I'm ahead of myself again._

Hold the gaze of the camera. Inhale.

_I suppose it begins in a land divided by conflict, a land of many kingdoms. Then a war-king conquered and took the throne in Camelot. His name was Uther Pendragon. Son of Constantine. He was a fierce and feared warrior who became king by force of will. For a while he was a just king. He didn't outlaw magic, not right away, not like he claimed later, that he'd saved the land from its clutches. The land was no more ravaged by magic than bandits. In fact, he had magicians at his court. Alice and Gaius were healers, and Nimueh, high priestess of the old religion, was among one of his most trusted friends. Sorcerers lived in Camelot. They worked for the good of the Kingdom. There was harmony Arthur, I promise you that. Once there was peace._

_But, you see, this warrior king had claimed this kingdom, and he meant to keep it. He meant to go through history as the source of a mighty legacy. He took a noble wife, Ygraine du Bois, and loved her very well. But when his wife couldn't bear children, he despaired. He wanted a son. He wanted a dynasty. So he asked the Nimueh if magic could help. If magic could make him a son and heir._

_It could, but Nimueh warned him that magic is balance; to make a life, a life had to be taken._

_Uther wanted the child so badly, he agreed. Whether he knew what the cost would be, no one will ever know for sure. Some say he knew precisely the risk, some say he didn't, and some say he knew a chance existed, but he never imagined his lady wife would be the price. Another life, maybe, an inconsequential one. He was willing to pay that. What was one of the townsfolk in exchange for a prince? Uther asked Nimueh to make it so. To give him a son._

_And she did.  
_

_Ygraine became with child. When the time came and his heir was born, however, as the child was born, Ygraine died. The grief of it overtook King Uther. He had a son, but his beloved wife was forfeit._

_I think his mind fractured that day. So great was his sorrow his mind began to splinter away from him. He was a man of action though, King Uther, and you must never forget that. He had taken Camelot by the sword, he ruled and defended it the same and he would not let his hurt go unpunished._

_He blamed the high priestess. But, you see, they had been friends. Would a friend do him so wrongly? When Nimueh loved Ygraine so? As sisters, nearly?_

_So, King Uther blamed magic. Magic had perverted the heart of Nimueh, had driven her into this odious pact. Magic was evil, a wicked power that changed the people who manifested it. There were and are and will be wicked sorcerers, Arthur, I would never deny that. There are selfish and evil witches and warlocks, just as there are selfish and evil swordsmen; people who use their skills, whatever they are, for ill._

_Uther proclaimed_ all _who touched magic evil. He blamed them all for taking his wife._

_Some people were afraid of magic, and were only too happy to see it purged from the land. To lay this blame, and use it to eject those who wielded what they did not._

_But, not everyone felt this way. King Uther's brother-in-law, Tristan du Bois, blamed Uther for the death of his beloved sister. Tristan du Bois believed it so much he challenged Uther to a duel.Tristan lost and Uther slew him, and it to everyone it seemed to prove Uther's cause was righteous._ _Even you must know, Arthur, trial by combat is nonsense. Winners do not have divine providence to win._ _It left only Agravaine as the sole surviving du Bois, and poisoned his heart, losing his brother and his sister to Uther._

 

_And then, his cause unopposed, Uther began the Great Purge. He razed druid encampments, he burned men and woman and drowned children for the slightest trace, the merest rumor of magic. He stole artifacts and hid them in the Camelot vaults, he desecrated religious sites. Gaius helped him find those people in exchange for his life, and helped a very few escape; Alice, his fiancee, and Morgause, the baby of Vivienne and older sister to Morgana._

_And sorcery burned in Camelot for the loss of Ygraine._

_It didn't stop there, however._

_King Uther got in contact with Balinor, the chief of all Dragonlords, the men who were masters of dragons. He wanted to make peace, King Uther said, and he asked Balinor to summon his dragonlord kin, the dragons, and the Great Dragon, Kilgarrah, so peace could be forged._

_They were deceived. King Uther slew all the dragonlords, the dragons and imprisoned the Great Dragon so to ensure no one could oppose him. He hunted Nimueh, he made war on his own people. His grief was almost madness, and some time in those years he drowned his sorrows in the wife of his friend Gorloris, Vivienne, and she bore him an illegitimate girl child. Morgana Pendragon. He soon after sent Gorloris to a battle which he would fail to support, thus destroying his friend, and brought his illegitimate blood to raise in Camelot._

_This is the history of the Pendragons. Forgive me for it, Arthur._

Exhale.

Close the eyes.

Open them. Steady.

_But magic? It's a part of the earth, part of humans. You might as well outlaw freckles or wrinkles, for all the good it would do you to to illegalize it. Magic must be in the land, for balance, for the health of the planet itself. And Camelot was draining the world of it, for what Uther decreed his allies followed. The world hemorrhaged, Arthur, in a way that was never meant to be. It was bleeding._

_The old religion was frightened. So many of their numbers died. They went into hiding, for they were a peaceful people, mostly. They were trying to survive, to last, for they had foreseen a great destiny. I don't know how long ago it was seen, only that it was written of long ago; a golden era of peace and prosperity unlike any other. A utopia, when magic would be returned to the land, and the lands would be united into one kingdom under the leadership of one king. The greatest king ever to live; Once and Future King. He would unite the land, herald in an age of prosperity and peace and once his reign was over, he would sleep and them return some day when humanity's need was at it's greatest._

_This was your legacy, Arthur. You were born to be this king, the Once and Future King. Magic foresaw it. I know you said you didn't believe in destiny. I don't know if it was destiny, you certainly didn't do it because it was written. You did it because you were you, and magic foresaw what a remarkable man you would be._

_But, not without help. The King would not be alone. He couldn't do it alone. He would need the other side to his coin; a great warlock, shadow to his light, magic to his sword. Emrys, the druids called him. The greatest, perhaps, if it doesn't sound like boasting. This warlock would help and serve the king, would bring magic back to the land._

_You see Gaius, eaten with guilt for the blood on his hands, helped Balinor to escape. He hid him with a dear friend, Hunith in the town of Ealdor over the border of Essetir. Hunith and Balinor fell in love. When Balinor left he didn't know she was with child._

A smile. More honest. Bittersweet.

_Me._

_At least, I think they were in love. Mum never talked about him, but she never married._

_Yes. The man in the cave was my father. I know what you must be remembering; how he died in my arms. 'No man is worth your tears', you said. You were wrong about it, but I didn't dare tell you. I've wept for so many great men as they lay dying in my arms. I don't regret any of them. They were all worth the tears. Even you.  Especially you.  
_

_But Balinor was my father, and I am the last of the dragonlords. Useless, now. The dragons were hunted to extinction by men a long time ago._

_I don't know if I was foreseen and am only a natural product of excess magic needing to go somewhere, or if I am a creation of the Goddess, a tool intended to bring an agenda about. I don't know what was supposed to happen, what it was expected I would do. I only know what I was. What I am._

_I was doing magic before I could talk or walk, Arthur. My Mum said I'd float things around my basket. I never needed spells or enchantments like other warlocks. Magic is just what I am. I was balance. I was all the magic being taken from the world in once place, in one person. Someone strong enough to endure, someone strong enough to aid you in all the adversity you would face._

_I didn't know this, then. All I knew was living in secret for fear of being stoned to death by people who smiled at me every day, if they found out the truth. Every day of my life was a miracle someone didn't see me accidentally preventing buckets from falling or saving people from thresher accidents. I had so much magic I couldn't control it, and it was always striking out obeying my will to protect and save. I'd think it and it happened, and here I was, some nothing farm peasant with unbelievable power. I felt so lost, growing up. Not knowing why I was the way I was, not understanding why I couldn't be normal and knowing my life wouldn't ever be like anyone elses. Will was the only one who knew about me. My best mate. You probably don't remember him. Or, maybe you do. He died, taking the blame for sorcery, at Ealdor, remember? It wasn't him, that day. It was me. But Will, he was always so loyal. He said it was him. He said it so I could keep on protecting you._

_Another one of those great men I've cried for.  
_

_It became too much the older I got in such a small village. Too conspicuous. Mum got so worried I'd be caught and burned or enslaved. So she sent me to Gauis, the only warlock she knew, in the hope he could teach me control._

_I walked into Camelot to see a man named Tom Collins being executed for sorcery, and his mother pledging vengeance because her heart was destroyed. I didn't know about Camelot. I'd been raised in Essetir, and Mum never told me how they — I guess she didn't know how to tell a child there were whole kingdoms that would put you to death for simply being the way you were born._

Lost in thought again. Eyes harder to read. Distant. Slower to come back, mist retreating into subdued affection.

_You know . . . I didn't like you much when I first met you. I really didn't know who you were, that day. I thought you were an arrogant, stuck up, vicious bully. And Gwen was so lovely and kind. Leon so obedient. It seems too strange, remembering us as innocents.  
_

_Anyway, I'd only been in Camelot a few hours before the Great Dragon began calling me. He was the greatest of all dragons, and Uther had chained him under the castle. I don't know why, to this day, he let Kilgarrah live, but he did. Chained there in the dark, this mighty creature meant to fly the skies chained in the dark._

_And Kilgarrah said to me; 'How small you are for such a great destiny'. And he told me you were my destiny. I thought he was insane. Joking. I was destined to help you, muscleheaded arsehole?_

_Two days later I saved you from Mary Collins._

_I didn't save you because you were a prince, Arthur. Not because I thought it would get me in good graces, not even because we were supposed to have this great destiny._

_I saved you because it was the right thing to do. Because it was wrong for you to be murdered._

_And then I became your manservant, and I saw the man you really were, under the shadow of a frightened tyrant. The greatest of all men. A man who wanted justice, a man who kept his word, who honored his father, his vows, who respected the law. A man who would do the right thing in the moment of truth, no matter the cost. That was who you were, underneath the boasting and the arrogance and the entitlement of princely youth. I could see it more and more every day, glimmers of the man you could be, would be. With a few little pushes, with people treating you like a person, and not pampering you ceaselessly and feeding your ego._

_I knew it for sure in the Labyrinth of Gedref, when you drank poison for a useless servant._

_When you came to fight for Ealdor? I believed in you utterly._

A gesture. Hands held up, fingers slightly spread.

 _Of all the things you question, Arthur, let not my devotion or my affection be among them. I've done enough to give you grievances with me, but don't ever think I was anything less than yours. I was born to be yours, and I always will be yours. But not because some moldy seer saw it, not because someone else said so, but because_ you _, Arthur Pendragon, deserved it. You were a man worth following. A man who knighted a blacksmith, an itinerant swordsman and sidekick and a drunkard. A man who let a father with stolen food go to save his starving children. A man who offered his own life to stop a war. You were a man worth devotion. Worth serving._

Hands down. Sinking back into the chair. Being pulled under again by the tide of regret.

_And there will be many things that grieve you in my tale. So many of the decisions I made over those years, so many things I did, because for a long time I tried to do the right thing. Not always what the dragon or Gaius told me, but just . . . following my heart. It didn't always work. I am to blame for so much. Not the least of which is Uther's death. I promise you, Arthur, I tried to save him. I would have saved him, if not for the counter-curse Morgana put on him. I did save Uther, so many times, even when it would have been easier to let him die, to stop the hate. But I saved him, and not because it wasn't time or even because he was your father. Well, maybe a little bit. But, mostly, because it was wrong for him to be murdered or married to trolls or driven mad by Morgause._

_But it's not just Uther's blood that stains my hands._

_From the first time I met Mordred as a boy, the Great Dragon told me he would be your end. He told me to let him be killed then, as a child. I couldn't. I couldn't condemn a boy for what he hadn't yet or may not ever do._

_Kilgarrah knew about Morgana, too.'The Witch' he called her. I tried to help her, but I couldn't let her know about me. I couldn't trust her not to tell, and then she had her own secrets to bear. I used to wonder, if I'd offered her friendship and magical companionship if the isolation still would have destroyed her. Maybe she wouldn't have been driven into Morgause's arms, if she'd had a friend. If she hadn't been living in terror of discovery every day, alone. If she'd had soemthing to hold, maybe discovering her true parentage wouldn't have hurt so.  
_

_I'll never know if it could have been different. I only know I tried to do what I thought was for the best.  
_

_Let me tell you._

_I'd become your manservant before I even knew what I'd done. I was only there to help Gaius, to learn some control, to find out from the Great Dragon why I had such power. You were a total prat, at first. I didn't hold much hope for improvement. The first day as your manservant was the day of the annual Tournament. It's when Valiant tried to kill you. He had a shield enchanted with snakes. . ._

One hour.

_. . . and so I asked Gwen for a sword, the best sword her father had ever made, and I took it to Kilgarrah. He breathed dragon fire onto it, making it dragon forged..._

Three hours

_. . .Gaius was trying to subdue her visions, trying to hide them, but she was getting too strong. Only magic could help her, so we . . ._

Five.

_. . . couldn't help as me. So we had to disguise me. We searched and found this tricky spell, and aging spell, like the one Morgana used to disguise herself as Hildy, later. I didn't really want to deceive you, but I had so save Gwen, so I took the blame as Dragoon, the old man. A crazy old coot . . ._

Eight.

_. . . He died for you. But he also died for Gwen. And for me. I was going to go into the rift, to prevent you from going, and he knew it. So, he went instead, because he knew who I was. Because he loved you and Gwen and I, because he was brave enough to sacrifice himself for everything. For us, for Camelot. For the world. That thing that came back later? It was never him. It was a shade, an echo Morgana called up to hurt you and Gwen. Lancelot died a self sacrificing hero, so forgive him, Arthur. Maybe you can understand why Lance has his face._

Ten.

_. . . and I was punished by the old religion. I denied them, I asked you to deny them. So they made sure Mordred lived to be your doom . . ._

Thirteen.

_. . . And Gwen. She lived to be ninety eight. Can you imagine? Such a long reign. Her hair was all white, by then, but still in curls. She was adored, Arthur, you can't imagine how much she was. Virtuous and beloved._

_She asked for me before she -- when she knew her time was coming. I wasn't in very good shape, then, but I came when she summoned. We held each other. That whole last day, on your bed, until she died. Just held each other. We were all that was left of those days, the only two that remembered. I didn't want her to go. I was so frightened to be alone, because by then I'd stopped getting older. I looked like a young man and all my friends were dying of old age.  
_

_Looking back . . . I think she was holding me. Because nothing would stop her going to you and leaving me behind. She knew she was going to something good, going to Elyan and Thomas and you and -- and I'd be stuck here by myself._

_She was so peaceful. Not scared at all. She slipped away like a sigh, smiling. Queen Guinevere._

_I don't remember what happened after that. I eventually woke up with Aithusa. Then I was a tree for a while._

Eyes darted away. Hand dashed at some tears. Collecting himself.

_She left the throne to Gareth, Leon and Mithian's son. He married Elena's daughter, Dindrane, uniting the two kingdoms. Over the next few generations all the kingdoms came to be united under one crown. One country. Albion. It's known as England now. Great Britain, the United Kingdoms of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. It survives today with a royal family. Not related to you, but, well, Leon, I guess. A bit ironic, really. The man who gave his wife and sanity for an heir, and his heir left no heir._

_Maybe if I'd given you just a little more time I --_

_But, as I said. I can't think about paths untaken. Not any more. It leads to insanity. I know. I've been there. I've gone insane. I've gone sane. The former is more enjoyable. Going sane is harder. When you're insane, you grip some pieces of the puzzle, you hold them so tightly they're your whole world. But they're pieces. Fragments without sense. Going sane, you put all the pieces together, see the whole picture, everything in its place, and you have to live with that picture.  
_

_I don't know any more. Is this a punishment? Living forever, undying, always waiting? So many men long for immortality, hunt for it, crave it. Is it a reward, then? How can such disparate opinions have one source? What is the purpose of this destiny if I am wearied and too full and tired of the world, and you fresh and ignorant of it? You were so young, Arthur. So very, very young. Not yet thirty. Not yet thirty, my destiny and dead in my arms. I'd failed you in every way._

_You'd barely started, barely begun and you were gone. Not my destiny, not the king, but Arthur. Arthur gone. And you thanked me. Your last breath and you thanked me. It was the most wonderful and the most awful thing you'd ever said to me._

Sleeve dragged across the eyes. Inner wrist pressed against the mouth before dropping away.

_I can't . . . I'm starting to forget things. The best things, and they're slipping away. It scares me so much. The exact blue of your eyes. The way your hair shone when you wore your crown. Washing your stupid red cape because you didn't like the way the laundry women did it._

_It seems like the tighter I hold onto the way you said my name --_ Mer _lin -- the more it slips away from me. I'd give anything to hear you berate me. Anything to hear you say my name and call me an idiot._

_Merlin_

Mer _lin_

_**Mer** lin._

_You see? It isn't right. Not like the way you used to do it. I can't remember it any more._

_And then I realize I'm longing to be called names, longing to be insulted just for the pleasure of hearing your voice, even if it's petty name calling. Sometimes that makes sense. No one else but you would call me names any more because you remember when I used to knock dishes over and snapped twigs on hunts and blundered through the world like an elephant. To you I'd just be Merlin, not Emrys or Myrddin or famous or anything else. Merlin the manservant. I miss him._

_And you'd be there. At long last. I could stop being so lonely. I could stop waiting. Serve you again, save the world, again. Whatever needs doing. I don't care, as long as you're here. I miss you so much, more than Gaius and Gwen and Gwaine, Kilgarrah, more than Merlin the manservant. Every moment I miss you. Like your name carved into my body, but it never heals. I just keep bleeding without you. I miss your voice. I miss your wit. I miss how stupidly bloody determined and honorable you were. I miss the way you fussed. I miss feeding you rats. I miss seeing you in your armor with Excalibur and knowing everything was going to be all right because we were both there and when we were together we could do anything._

_If you were here maybe I would stop bleeding for a little bit, and feel something else. The world bled magic into me, and I keep bleeding without you. Maybe if you were here it would stop. Maybe if you were here I could make sense in the world that's out grown me. I could have a purpose again, instead of waiting. It's like the night before a battle, Arthur. Knowing you have to fight tomorrow, knowing what must be done, and having to wait. Only I've been waiting for three thousand years for the battle to begin, always knowing my purpose, but never fulfilling it. Maybe if you were here I could have a use again._

_Maybe this unwieldy, eternal life of mine could end._

_I'm so tired._

_Except you're not coming, are you, Arthur? It was a lie. Like the times I was told I could change our destinies, that if I did this one small thing I could clear away all the bad fate. Lies. Falsehoods. Promises made to some boy wide eyed from the country imbued with power beyond any other. Some stupid boy who believed everything told to him, a pawn for Goddesses and priestesses and kings to move in the search for power. Promises like dangling carrots that boy chased after for so long. I believed it because I needed to. Because I loved you so much I couldn't fathom failing you._

_But I don't believe it any more, Arthur. I've seen too much. Too much has happened, too many moments when I realized your moment had come and gone without you as time moved on and humans evolved. What good could you do in the Black Plague? The Blitz? The Urban Unrest?_

_The time for one man and a sword passed.  
_

_So here I am, forever waiting for you. Prat._

_I miss you._

_But you're not here to hear this, are you? This is some security blanket to soften the brunt of it._

_That you're never coming._

_Oh Gods._

A despairing sob--

**Recording ends.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, yeah. Downer chapter. Obviously this is one of the encrypted files inside Lance that was referred to earlier, and while not implicitly stated, you can see some motivations buried in there. 
> 
> Sorry this took a bit longer to get out. I originally intended to only have the seven parts, one for each merlin, but I felt like we needed to hear from Prime. So here he was. It's unbeta'd, so forgive any errors, though let me know of any egregious continuity fails I've missed.


	6. 05: Manipura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! This hasn't been abandoned or anything. I've got most of the next one written, but it may take some time to tart it up. It's a bit longer than I intended.  
> Still no beta, so let me know if some of the dialogue gets confusing as to who is saying what when.

 

“He's not as tall as you made him out to be.”

“How tall did we make him out to be?” Four asked around his cigarette. He was lying prone in the bunk he shared with Shay. The room was untidy with clothes strewn about, empty food containers and lots of posters of bands they each felt degrees of affection and revulsion for.

He was watching Shay pull on her jumpsuit over candy apple colored underwear and enjoying the view. She had a tattoo of a pentangle on her hip he had a predilection for licking, and he watched it disappear under the baggy folds of the suit.

“I don't know. Seven feet? I guess you lot always talk about him in this larger and life way. You're taller than he is. I guess I didn't expect it.” Shay shrugged, drawing the zipper up and pulling her long brown braid out from the collar. She went hunting for socks. “He's not as good looking, either.”

“Shall I cancel your invite to the orgy, then?” Four smirked.

She laughed. “Don't go that far. He's not bad looking.” She perched on the side of the bed to pull the located socks on. “He's just . . . well, everyday, isn't he? Not the tall perfect beauty I thought. His teeth are crooked.”

Four reflected on that. Had he ever thought the same? When their father pulled out his sketches and paintings, had Four ever looked at them and thought ' _what an ordinary blonde for such a mythic history'._ If he had thought it, anticipation had long since supplanted ambivalence. The face had been dear to him long before he saw its flesh original. Every line, every curve. Of course Arthur had crooked teeth. His crooked teeth were perfect. So was his mouth. Four thought about licking that, too.

Shay leaned over and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. She drew it to her own and took a drag, socked heels resting on the tousled bedclothes they had not five minutes earlier been tousling with an enthusiastic coupling. Four felt her eyes on him, though he himself was staring across the room at nothing in particular.

“Better not let Secundus catch you with these,” Shay said, indicating with the cigarette. She exhaled a puff of green tinged smoke and handed it back over.

Four accepted it. “He has enough on his plate to notice. Trying to schedule everyone. You know he's got Three hacking into Imperial datastreams?”

Shay's eyebrows bumped. “Seems risky.”

“He's convinced there's some impending calamity; hence, Arthur. He's gonna be prepared for it if it fucking kills him. I don't even know if he's sleeping.” Four took one more hit off the cigarette before rolling on his side to stub it out in an empty fizz can.

“Mm. Still. Imperial datastreams. I wonder if he could find out Elvis' planet of origin,” Shay scooted away, and stuffed her feet into her boots. She laced them and stood. “ I have work on Five's ship. Remember your shift at command is in three hours.” A messy kiss was blown at him, and she was gone, leaving only the smell of sex until the acid of the cigarette.

Four lay for a few more moments before fumbling at the remote for his screen. He flicked it on to the security feeds and cycled through them until he found Arthur. This was becoming a habit. Checking up on Arthur, watching him. Four suspected he wasn't the only one.

If Four were a liar, he'd say it was all harmless. While, sure, sometimes Four did watch for mere interest, he had spent some time watching Arthur and touching himself. He didn't feel particularly guilty about it. The universe made Merlin so all he saw was Arthur. Four wasn't much different, only he didn't let duty or shame get in the way of his libido. What would be the point?

Just watching Arthur could be fun too. One night, when Four had been struck with insomnia he watched Arthur sleeping for a few hours until Arthur awoke, clearly from a nightmare. Four had watched him visit the facilities, and then in great interest trailed Arthur through the cameras when he left his quarters.

Arthur hadn't done much. He'd walked through the hallways almost gingerly, stopping to examine or feel unexpected and frankly everyday things. Then he'd gotten himself locked in the observation room when he punched the wrong buttons on the panel. If Arthur had shouted and pounded on the door, maybe Four could have had an excuse to rescue him. Instead, Arthur remained trapped for over an hour, trying to work the panel, and Four watched, unwilling present the King with the question of how Four knew where he was trapped, which might then lead to questions about the cameras.

At the moment Arthur was in the home gym, Three spotting him as he lifted weights. It was the first thing Five suggested to help Arthur adjust. Let him work out, practice with a sword, relearn his body after a few thousand odd years of not using it.

Arthur took to it like a nympho to a gangbang. In point of fact, he'd taken up boxing, and two forms of martial arts Four couldn't even pronounce. Sure, Four had enough kick boxing and karate in him to provide decent defense against a moderately determined assailant, but he was no black belt. Arthur had thrown himself into the pursuit with a verve Four couldn't quite understand.

Each day he went to the gym for a few hours, pushed himself on the machines, took instruction from the computer on the fighting styles. Each day he sweated and labored and each day Three had to rub out all the aches from the day before.

There was nothing quite like watching your double rub down an object of your lust. It was a bit like made-to-order porn.

Four lit another cigarette and lay, watching Arthur go through a number of the weight machines, working his arms, legs and torso. He'd turned the sound off so he wouldn't hear Three's encouraging chatter. Just watched. Arthur seemed especially energetic today.

About the time Arthur was strapping on some gloves Four stirred himself and pulled on some clothes. Enough of this just watching shit.

He presented himself in the gym to the dulcet sound of Arthur pounding the crud out of a bag.

“Hey,” Four greeted.

Three grinned and waved. Arthur didn't so much as pause. He was staring at the bag very hard while he pounded it.

“Thought you might like a live subject to spar against.” Four said, ambling nearer to Arthur. He thought he saw Three spasm in warning, but he ignored it. Whatever Arthur handed out, Four could take.

The King finally paused beating the bag, red faced and sweating, and he turned to eye Four. It was clearly one verging on dismissal.

Four laughed. “Alright, I'm not as impressive as One, but I promise a better match that Three here.”

Three made a protesting noise.

Arthur ignored him, but came to a decision. He nodded at Four. “Put on the padding.”

Four wasn't sure it was strictly necessary, but he pulled on gloves and pads anyway as Three handed them over from one of the lockers. He was also twitching his eyes at Four oddly, but Four ignored it. When ready, he trod to stand barefoot on the mat, rolling his arms and hopping up and down to limber himself up.

As Arthur got into position Four opened his mouth to ask why Arthur hadn't donned any padding, not even so much as a mouth guard when he was strapped in to the toe . . . and was grateful for every inch of protection when the Once and Future King tried to clobber him, no holds barred.

Fists came speeding at Four's head and shoulders. He ducked the flying fury, dodging erratically to try and avoid the heavy blows. He managed to glance a few off when he caught his bearings, but Arthur was not pulling his punches, and Four had to stay on his toes as fists thudded against the chest guard. FOur sprung back from blows to the belly. He landed a few of his own too, for while Arthur had strength, Four was quick. He could bob in a land one, albeit infrequently.

Mostly Four was involved in trying to elude Arthur; this was not the sexy sweaty encounter he'd had in mind at all! Slowly he became aware Arthur's lips were moving as he followed Four around the mat. Arthur was speaking. And when Four tried to catch the elusive muttering he heard;

“Everything. Everything was a lie. You lied to me. Our whole lives. Lied. Lied. Lied.” Four only just caught the words from a grim faced Arthur while blocking and twisting away from blows. They were muttered with biting reproach, he didn't think they were intended to be heard, at least not by him. Four had a feeling his face was merely a substitute for another Arthur wanted to vent his ire on. One out of reach.

“Lied to me like everyone else!”

The words fueled Arthur, and soon Four was no longer striking his own hits, only receiving.

In the end Four lay on the mat trying to catch his breath while Arthur ambled over to get some water and wipe himself down.

Three popped into Four's field of vision. He looked apologetic.

“Sorry, I tried to warn you. He's caught up to Dad not killing Kilgarrah. He's not taking it well.” Three said, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Honestly, he's a bit put out in general.”

An empty plastic water bottle went flying in the vicinity of Three's head with what Four rather thought was a calculated flight path not actually designed to hit the sorcerer clones, but to register disapproval none the less.

Three pressed his lips to subdue what was, judging from his bright eyes, probably a laugh. Then he gave Four a hand up. Four was sweating, and so he stuck to the plastic of the mats and had to be peeled off. He groaned when he came upright.

“Fuck!”

Three clucked in compassion. “Yeah, that's gonna leave a mark.”

“Which one? I feel like I've been atacked by savage kangaroos. Why do you let him keep watching those vids?” Four muttered as Three began to unstrap the padding. Four was grateful again. He wasn't sure he could bend down to do it himself.

“Oh, like there's another option? 'Hello Arthur, yes, I know Dad left you a DNA coded message buried deep inside Lance in the single most depressing not-suicide note ever, along with the records of his lifetime, but you're not actually allowed to watch them because it makes us all feel awkward and puts you in a snit'. I think that'll go over splendidly. Shall you tell him or will you be making me do it so he can break my tiny techie bones to dust?”

“Breathe. Or you'll suffocate before he can get around to the pummeling.” Four hissed when Three uncinched the chest piece. Three smiled sweetly and jerked the next one rather roughly. Four glared at him.

“You're a precocious little shit.” Four said.

“And you're an oversexed bonobo.” Three shrugged. “We all have our crosses.”

 

 

Four had twelve bruises. He counted them as they came up over the next few hours and Four was sentenced to his shift in the control center. He alternated with playing games, making sure the computers were running and said bruise examining. For all that Lance was an impressive piece of machinery, Three was the only one who relied on computers expressly and with absolute faith. Still, it didn't mean minding Tintagel's nerve center wasn't mind numbingly dull.

In between rounds of blowing up pixelated aliens and poking his bruises, Four stared at the various screens, casting an eye to such scintillating read-outs as sewage processing output and solar wind analyses.

Just when Four was getting a good funk on the comms lit up, as did the proximity alerts. A red light flashed and a warning sound buzzed.

 _“Tintagel. Please respond, Tintagel.”_ came over the comms, fuzzy with static and crackling with the radio waves that made up the sounds of the moon Tintagel was in orbit of.

“Oh, fuck!” Four mashed some buttons in a combination that brought shields to maximum atop the cloaking spell already obscuring them from all known forms of detection. His heart was thrumming now, seeming to swell in his chest. Fear. No one had ever found them, not in two hundred years. It was impossible. Tintagel was wreathed in magic so dense that once an imperial cruiser sat on top of them for a week and never knew they were there.

 _“Tintagel, Please respond.”_ buzzed the comms, the words distorting with audio pollution. Four muted the hailing.

Four flicked the switch to the intercom system. “Two, someone's found us.”

It wasn't just Two, but everyone who crowded into the control center. Two, impeccably dressed even though this had to be the middle of his sleep cycle, One lurking in the background, Shay carrying a bowl of noodles she slurped unconcernedly, Seven who smelled a little bit of whiskey, Five with his medical apron on. Three joined Four at the console, leaving a freshly showered Arthur to loiter at the back with One.

“Shields to maximum, radio silence.” Two said sharply.

“Already done.” Four reported.

“How could they find us?” Five asked.

“Don't know.” Four surrendered his seat to Two.

“Reading; one small vessel. Sigma Class. One life sign, no robotics. No weapons system. No shields. Passenger class.” Three reported.

“Could be a trap.” Seven rubbed his stubble.

“Someone's trying to Trojan Horse us?” Four said disbelievingly. Still  . . . they did have Arthur, now . . .

“Someone did authorize certain datastreams to be investigated. That sort of shit hardly goes unnoticed.” Seven said.

Four frowned doubtfully.“You think it's Imperial?”

Seven shrugged.

“In my experience justice for espionage hardly comes up to your front door and knocks politely. Have they made contact?” Five stepped forward, taking hold of Three's chairback.

Three nodded. “Continuous hailing.” With a few taps of the keys the control room was filled with the static riddled voice.

_“Hailing Tintagel. Please respond. Tintagel, this is the Novia, come in please.”_

Three frowned too. “How did they know who and where we are?”

“You don't think we've gone unnoticed, do you?” Seven glanced at Three. Four saw his expression was just the affectionate side of disbelieving incredulity. “That people don't know we're somewhere in this sector?”

“Seven,” Five warned. “People may know of us, but this is a bit more on the nose than a lucky guess.”

“It could be pirates.” Shay said. “Trader's station always has a few. They could have followed us.”

“Or the Order of the Bear, on a less violent note.” Five added.

“Or an Angler Fish, and we're looking at the bright shiny bit.” Seven snapped.

Four was frowning at the screen which Three had called up. It showed the beaten vessel, the paint chipped and the engines burning magenta which meant fuel with illegal impurities. It was a junker, and none of Three's increasingly probing scans turned up anything that could even detect Tintagel, let alone hope to damage it. It was a pathetic conveyance, the sort of thing scavengers and the meanest peddlers used.

It was Arthur's voice, the new tones within the familiar chorus that had Four turning to look at the King.

“You're all not listening.” Arthur said, his eyes too on the image of the ship.

Four watched Two's mouth twitch, restraining something, then Four exchanged an 'O Rly?' look with Three who shrugged and went back to typing.

“What aren't we hearing, Arthur?” Five asked gently.

Four watched as Arthur shifted his stance to cross his arms over his chest. “You're only listening to what's being said. All you have to do is listen. Really listen.”

He cocked his head, eyes sliding closed and silence fell over the control center. They all listened to the voice repeating its plea over and over.

Four had to admit, it was familiar. . .

“It's Merlin.” Arthur said. His eyes were opened again.

There was a small chorus of responses, ranging from curses to disbelief. Four himself strained to hear the voice, really hear it under the sounds of Three typing madly. Gradually through Three's efforts audio feed grew clearer, the static siphoned out and yes, Four heard it. How could he have missed it? It was a voice he heard countless times a day. It was his own voice, well, if you didn't account for the particular quirks of dialogue. Each of them was a slightly different take on the original after all.

_“Tintagel, please respond. Tintagel? Tintagel, this is the Novia, please . . . someone . . . please respond,”_

“Six.” Five murmured when the comms were clear.

Arthur furrowed his brow at Five. “Not Prime?”

Five shook his head. “No. It's Six.”

“I thought he had gone?” Arthur's eyes flashed to Three. Well, that answered who was telling tales, then. Not that it was much of a surprise. Three basically walked around with his mouth open.

“He did.” Five said, and his lack of elaboration did not assuage Arthur's confusion.

Seven edged forward, voice sharp. “Don't answer. Let the fucker run out of fuel and freeze out there.”

Four couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Nice, man, nice. Real charitable.”

“While I don't agree with the violence of the sentiment, Sextus cannot be allowed on board.” Two said, and Four could hear the certain clinical surety in the tones which was a decision being made from logic and nothing but.

“So, what? We just turn off the lights and pretend no one's home?” Three was aghast. “We can't do that! He's here for Arthur. He has to know, we all knew.”

“Knew what?” Arthur asked.

Five gestured to his head. “Internal alarm system. No point in all of us if we don't get notified the Once and Future King has risen. And Two, we cannot leave him out there, ignoring his signals. It's cruel.”

Arthur, Four noted, looked both overwhelmed and troubled. One was the only body not a part of the loose circle they had formed. Two and Three had swiveled their chairs away from the consoles.

“We can and we will. He betrayed us to Min Su. He's a traitor and a weakling.” Seven said. “We can't trust him here.”

“He's one of us.” Three insisted stubbornly.

“He was one of us. Now he's wasted genetic material.” Seven shot back.

“He never betrayed us, we have no evidence of that.” Five said evenly.

“He left. Is that a crime now, leaving Tintagel? Because last I checked you had a ship you use to fly to exotic locales to smuggle and sulk and go binge drinking. I didn't know the rest of us had to be prisoners, never allowed to leave.” Three was getting upset.

“He left and joined the company of a famous gangster. This is hardly a rousing endorsement of his activities since. Activities I will not pretend are unknown to us.” Two glanced at Arthur, but thankfully didn't expand. Three blushed. Four wished he wouldn't. As much as he could deal with his brother being a little fucked in the head, it was one thing having to hear rumors and quite another to explain them to the King. Especially when you had a face in common. There was some stuff Four did not want his face attached to in Arthur's head.

“More rules I must have missed the memo on.” Three said, fingers flexing and tapping in agitation, as if he wished he had a keyboard under them. “So is a traitor then anyone who doesn't do what you'd like them to do?”

The division of perspectives and judgments on Six was not unexpected. Seven and Two were against even contacting Six, of pretending they weren't even there. Three and Five thought he should be allowed on board. One only shrugged, refusing to participate despite verbal prodding, as ever. Shay and Lance didn't get votes, which Shay liked to bitch about sometimes, since she was a clone too. Sure, Lance was a 'bot, so of course he didn't get a say. Why didn't Shay?

Four never had a good answer for her.

Right this moment she chewed noodles and watched them all, looking cool and unconcerned, even if her eyes were sharp and attentive.

The split left Four in the established role as the tiebreaker, as usual. Sometimes he hated it, tipping the scales between the two. It was so often, as in this case, a question of the heart or the head.

But this time? This time there was Arthur. He stood silent, and listened to them arguing back and forth apparently absorbing the different view points.

In the end, Arthur only said one thing, which, in light of Four's bruises, seemed odd to him.

“I trust Merlin.”

 

 

Six lay flat on his belly in the landing bay, legs together, arms spread in the most subservient pose Four could imagine. It made him itch, seeing Six like that. His head was straight into the ground, smashing his nose to one side, rather than bracing his cheek against the metal. It had to be uncomfortable, and Four wasn't sure the floor was all that clean. Four had never seen Shay mopping it. She was the mechanic, she usually pointed out. Not the maid.

Weirder still, to Four, was that Six hadn't apologized. He'd come out of the rustbucket of a vessel, so frighteningly thin, barefoot and positively swimming in the washed-into-gray scrubs he wore. He'd assumed the position almost immediately, drawing himself downward in front of his assembled brethren. It looked like a position of penance, and yet Six said nothing to indicate he felt guilt for anything.

“I came as soon as I could,” His voice had a whispery quality, when not broadcast over the comms. “From Sector Gamma 927.”

Five's voice was warm. “That's a long way. It's good to see you, Sextus.” It was the same soft voice he used for Arthur, a voice for invalids.

“I felt him. I came.” Six replied.

“Why have you come? It has been twenty years, why did you bother?” Two said. As warm as Five's had been, Two's voice was cold as flint.

Six hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I have come to serve him. He has risen.”

Four was glad no one tried to deny that and Arthur was present. As if their first action wouldn't be to gather him into safety and there was nowhere safer than Tintagel. It had been generally agreed upon though that Arthur should wait in the control room. He hadn't wanted to, but also had to defer to Two's observation that they knew their brother better.

Four wasn't sure that was true. Six had always been weird. Four had fuzzy childhood memories of Father tending and bandaging long thin cuts on little Six's arms and legs, though he'd never gotten a straight answer as to who would dare hurt Six. It couldn't have been Father. It wasn't Four, or Two, Five or Three, nor even Seven or One, and Lance couldn't possibly have harmed little Six. It went against his programming. There was no one else.

The cuts always went away, they didn't even scar, and Four forgot about it mostly.

Except for moments like these, when the idea that he and Six were sourced in the same place scared him a little.

“You left here, Six. You've been associating with the worst kind of people. You are not trustworthy.” Two said.

“Could be bringing a fucking squad of looters and ChopJocks down on us. Did you sell us out?” Seven demanded. His hand rested on the plasma pistol he wore at his belt. Four frowned. That was a bit much.

“Hey, whoa, chill.” Four stepped forward, hands going out, trying to break the horrible tension moving between the trio. “This is Six, guys. He would never intentionally --”

“I was not followed.” Six said, his head still aimed at the floor, but his voice full of conviction. “I would _never_ endanger His Majesty. I am here to help.”

“See?” Four said to Seven and Two, though neither looked convinced. “So let's take this down a notch. Let's go have some drinks and talk.”

“No, we're not fucking inviting him inside for tea and god damned crumpets!” Seven snapped. “He might be wired, hell, have a microbomb in his gut and he'd blow us all to kingdom come.”

“Yeah, except the King came, and I can't see Six here sending him away again. It's not like we haven't been waiting. All of us. For a fucking long time.” Four said.

The intercoms clicked and Three's voice, a little crabby, issued. “Thorough scans are complete. There are no transmissions being made from Sextus or the Novia or a 100 klik radius. No explosives, guns, catchtraps, jackers, poisonous gases, flame throwers, pistols, tasers or silence grenades detected. Shall I scan for pointy sticks as well? He might have a fork.”

“Thank you, Three,” Two used his voice that always said something polite but really meant 'fuck off and let the adults handle this'.

Three carried on, undeterred. “He's been living on tack rations, if anyone cares. And they ran out a day ago.”

“Yeah, I'm sure the computer on this POS ship happily gave that info over. Mercy and pity,” Seven said, “They're for gullible fuckwits.”

“Jesus, you're paranoid.” Four said.

“This is not paranoia, Four. This is caution. Arthur Pendragon is the Once and Future King. Forces exist that would try and stop him, would try and take him for their own gain. It is up to us to defend him, from our own blood, if necessary. We have a duty. We answer to a higher purpose. We are the Merlins.”

“I am a Merlin.” It was almost a whisper from Six.

“You're a whore for a gangster. What would the Once and Future King possibly want with you?” Seven's voice dripped cruelty. He was looking at Six as if he were less than an insect.

“You do not speak for me, Seven.” The voice came into the room, loud and authoritative. Four sprung wood almost immediately as Arthur strode in from the corridor. So much for him letting Two handle things, and was Four glad of that.

He looked magnificent.

Ordinary trousers and shirt, but his jacket was Camelot red, his hair burned gold and he had something about him, some light that made him seem more than, as Shay described him, an ordinary man. This wasn't an ordinary man. This was a man who could do anything. His blue eyes were determined, his mouth set, and Four didn't doubt a word Father had ever said about him.

He strode in, passed them all, even Seven when he tried to stop Arthur from approaching Six. All it took was a look, and Seven seethed, but stood down, even if he kept his hand on his gun.

Six lay on the floor, unmoved from his supplicant's position, but Four could see he'd begun to visibly tremble. The skinny undernourished body shook with increasing force as the boot steps drew nearer and nearer, until Arthur knelt and laid a hand on his back. Then the trembling stopped all at once, and tension seemed to leak out of Six, banished by Arthur's hand. Although he didn't change position, it was as if he'd simply melted, sagged into some base element. Then it seemed like his whole body yearned towards Arthur.

There was a ragged sob, like tearing.

Six was weeping. Lying still and crying. Four couldn't tell if it was terror or sorrow or madness, only that Six seemed somehow unable to move.

Not until Arthur said. “You may rise.” and it was a tone more gentle than any other Four had heard from him thus far.

Six only came up as far as his knees. Four could see his face was shining with tears, even as he remained bent low. His fingers stretched out, reached to touch Arthur's boots as if they were the fucking Holy Grail and would cure all that ailed him. At the last moment though he withdrew them, forced himself not to touch, and he wadded his fingers in the giant shirt he wore as if to quell the impulse.

Nobody said anything. Four watched them, Six, and Arthur, whose expression had once again gone thoughtful as he looked at the wreck that was Six. Six who had always been a mess.

Four saw Two was flushed with embarrassment. Seven still looked severe and pissed.

“You said you need Three for other tasks?” Arthur finally asked Two.

“Arthur -- this -- you cannot. Six is -- he's . . . he's . . .” Two's eyes raked over them, trying to sort out words tasteful enough to describe the relatively unsavory nature of the scene. Two liked to keep his kiss ass less literal.

“He's just what I need in a new manservant.” Arthur said, turning his gaze back to Six. Six's head came up, the cheeks sharp and glittering, the expression shocked and covetous.

Seven gave an abrupt sound of frustration and stormed away before stamping back “He. Is. A. Danger!” he rapped out, jabbing a finger at the mewling Six, still on his knees.

When you actually said it, it did make Seven look a little silly. From Arthur's perspective all he saw was a frail, sobbing Merlin. He didn't know Six had once crushed a space ship like a beer can, killing all thirty pirates inside it.

With his mind.

Without breaking a sweat.

Granted, that wasn't story they often toted out for guests.

It didn't matter how Six looked, like the malnourished antonym of One. Six was a thousand times more dangerous than One could ever hope to be, and he didn't even need to be armed.

“I'll take full responsibility for his actions. Whatever danger he brings will fall on my head, not his.” Arthur said, calm and sure as Four had yet to see him. Standing up against Two for Six. Fuck he was sexy. Apparently there had been space for Four to fall just a little bit more in love with him. Who knew?

Seven began to curse a blue streak.

Six looked like he would die of gratitude. His eyes shone with pure and blatant adoration up at Arthur.

Two only looked at them both. “This is a bad idea.” He said, and turned on his heel and left without a backwards glance. Seven followed him, muttering to himself.

Four let out a chuckle. He grinned at Arthur. “Congratulations, Arthur. You're totally invited to the orgy.”

 

 


	7. 06: Sahasrara

He knew they did't understand it. Can't, maybe. They've always been too different for what were reportedly copies. Copies. Like off a machine, zip, zip, zip, all identical.

If that was so, they would all be all the same, and they aren't.

And yet they are. He knows they're angry at him because he knows them like he knows himself.

They don't understand him, though.

Maybe they've tried, maybe they have, who is Sextus to say? They understand the magic, that's a part of them in small ways too, but it isn't like they think. Sometimes they are foolish enough to envy it.

They don't understand the need, the loneliness. They know how to wait, they know how to miss in the far off way, easily distracted, but they don't know how to get up each day and actually feel yourself bleeding where your other half was cut away. Having to eat and smile and yawn while everything in you drains away, while you crave that which could never be had. While you hurt. Until hurt becomes all you can feel, everything else in you hollowed out until all you are is an oozing, purposeless shell filled with hurt. Agony in emptiness, pointlessness, uselessness.

So, they don't understand Mistress Min-su either.

She ran a crime syndicate, yes, but Sextus did not aid her in any way. If anything, his presence mitigated her more violent tendencies. She was softer after their sessions, she governed her establishment with an even hand that engendered loyalty, her ruthless viciousness is alotted only to those who needed reminding why she was Queen Bitch. Maybe she wasn't born beautiful, but Queen Bitches must be beautiful, so she had made herself so. Money could buy most things. Beautiful Queen Bitch who owned her corner of the galaxy with latex and a sophisticated savagery. It's funny how many people preferred her to the human empire.

But Sextus is a Merlin. He would never be accomplice to her in any of her endeavors. He wasn't so lost as that.

She wasn't interested in him that way, though. Well, she didn't know about the magic.

She didn't know who he was, what he was, not really. She came close. That he was one of a matched set of servants grown and programmed to please a master, special order, perhaps. That he was state of the art, regenerative. She knew his master had gone, leaving him bereft. It was close enough to the truth. Lies stuck better with truth as the mortar.

Mistress Min-Su wasn't a monster. She understood him, and that was what the others couldn't fathom. Or, as Mistress sometimes whispered to him, didn't want to, because this want must be inside them too, and to recognize it in Sextus would be to admit it in themselves. That what Sextus needed to just make it through living was not isolated, only they were too ashamed to admit the copper tasting _need._

Mistress kindly gave it to him, the balm to blunt the need's teeth. She made the days less than horrible. She took it away. Purpose to the agony. When the day was good, Six could see the world. When the day was especially bad, she'd listen to him beg for more and take the cat-o-nine-tails down to the bone and he'd cry with relief. It took the edge off. She'd put him away broken, thinking it was science that knit Sextus back together, good as new for the next time. He loved that. When she was satisfied with his suffering, with the bloodspatters and the stringy flesh hanging off him and his screams that had rendered his voice to a scratch. When she was sated and happy and she just hid him away in his box or the sensory deprivation tank. Sextus could curl up with little more than the exhausted knowledge that he'd pleased her, and all this endurance, for brief, shards of moments, had meaning.

And she'd come for him again, and he'd be good as new, healed as if she'd never laid hands on him. Sextus didn't like to keep his scars like Seven did. They didn't have meaning for him, the marks on the body. Every day, Sextus wanted new scars, wanted new pain written into his flesh to distract him.

Sometimes she took his blood, scraped skin cells when she thought he was gone, unconscious or slipped into subspace, but he always knew. Sextus knew how dangerous an army of Merlins would be, as much as he knew the appeal. He always curdled her purloined biological matter, spoiling the samples.

 

 

Sextus had been tied spread eagled for twenty four hours, stuffed full with something that occasionally vibrated, waiting for thirty six hours. Mistress had arrived and petted him, praised him. She had just hit her stride with her crop, her scope narrowing from his thighs and chest down to spanking his balls when the sensation rolled up from the back of Sextus' brain. A liquid, sweet rush of announcement, an alarm that was all _ArthurArthurArthur_! He 'd given a great cry, straining against his bonds, as the blossoming knowledge that it was time, that Arthur was among the world once more filled him, sending him over the precipice, and Sextus was climaxing, elated, lost, rapturous.

Arthur. Arthur had been all there was.

But Mistress was angry, somewhere. Distantly, Sextus had been aware when she beat him so hard skin ruptured, and the pain had been a sweet biting chaser. It had not drawn him down from the airy precipice, not even when she snatched his hair and dragged him by it, threw him into the sensory deprivation tank and slammed the lid closed, locking him in the dark, but it hadn't mattered, because _Arthur_.

He was bleeding for Arthur.

At last!

That thought alone sustained his high for several hours.

Even when he climbed down, it kept his newly healed body singing with jubilation. He didn't remove the cock ring, despite having orgasmed around it. He stayed in the box out of respect for his former mistress. He could have opened it and exited, just as he could have stopped anything she did at any time. Sextus always had the most magic. From the moment of his creation, he sang with it. He knew what it was to stand and hold his father's hand and hear the universe sing with a force all but forgotten.

Still, she would not like him going. Best not to anger her too much. Min-Su had been good to him. Sextus would not repay her kindness with churlishness.

When she came, brought light and sound back she asked if he was sorry. He was, for disobeying, but not for anything else. Not for anything. Not for coming to her, not for asking her help. Not for kneeling as her footstool during audiences while wearing giant plugs, his bottom aimed so supplicants could see him exposed fully. Not for leaving his brothers to be in her service. He couldn't be sorry for these things. Should he?

He had looked up at her. It had been a long time since he looked her directly in the face. She'd gotten her eyebrows done since he'd seen her last. He could see her reaction to the audacity at once. A tightening around the mouth, the eyes going lethal and cold.

“I have to go now.” Sextus told her. He bowed low in respect. “Thank you for all you have done.”

“Go?” Min-su had said. “You're not going anywhere.”

Sextus bent lower, pressing his forehead to the floor. “I'm sorry.”

“You will be. You're going back into the tank for a week, no breaks, and then I am going to beat you until your back breaks for daring to --”

“I have to go now.” Sextus repeated softly.

He stood up, onto the mat she had laid down so he wouldn't track water. He removed the cockring and tried to dry himself while she stared at him with incredulity.

“If you do not get back here on your knees and beg my forgiveness, you will regret it.” Warning razored the tones.

Sextus kept his head down and went to the little cubby where his clothes were. “I can't. I'm sorry. Please don't try and stop me. It's time for me to go.”

“No one leaves me, slave.”

“I'm sorry.”

He had just pulled out the worn trousers he'd not worn in three years when Min-Su shot him through the heart. She'd been vicious and used the antique gun that shot metal. His flesh spattered onto the wall in meaty chunks. He looked at it, all wet and red. Bleeding. Bleeding for Arthur again, it sang in his head, so happy. His flesh regrew. So did his resolve. No one could keep him from Arthur.

And no one did.

 

 

While Two and Seven radiated dislike and distrust, Four and One a degree of ambivalence, it was Five and Three's friendliness that Sextus had anticipated, and was gratified to receive. It did come with some caution, at least on Five's part. Three had never known caution, and Sextus supposed he loved Three best for the exuberance of love he showed at every turn, without price or consideration. Three was the only one who didn't leave a room when he entered, who struck up conversations, who hugged Sextus when he first saw him.

Lance took a page from Three's book, but he was a robot, and Sextus wasn't sure he could be uncivil. Shay was kind enough when their paths crossed, but though the familiar devil-may-care attitude was in check, and she spoke and did what she liked, she never lingered.

Arthur, on the other hand, plainly did not know what to think of this upset among the Merlins. Perhaps when he had stepped forward for Sextus he had not realized he would be changing the careful dynamics they'd worked out, the power arrangement he himself had only just become accustomed to.

Sextus knew Arthur watched them, a furrowed expression on his face which spoke of confused pondering, of trying to slot the pieces together into understanding. He never asked questions, but he watched them, and watched them interacting with each other and their world.

Sextus hadn't been able to believe it when Arthur stepped forward and spoke for him to Seven and Two. He could hardly speak for how beautiful Arthur was, and how he was everything that father had spoken of. He didn't even know Sextus, and he'd vouched for him. Had any part of Sextus been in reserve, any scrap of him apart, it caved then. Everything for Arthur.

Sometimes Sextus thought his heart beat out that name. _Ar-thur. Ar-thur. Ar-thur._

Claiming the legacy from their father, and becoming Arthur's manservant was perhaps the happiest day of Sextus' life. Moreso because Arthur had come for him. Arthur wanted him.

Sextus was determined not to disappoint.

Being a manservant cum PA to Arthur was not easy, but it was deeply satisfying. Sextus was charged with waking Arthur, aiding him to dress, preparing his meals, guiding him through Tintagel, various fetching and carrying, spotting and assisting at Arthur's exercise and training, or anything else that occurred to Arthur.

He also trained Arthur in the practices and uses of various domestic and commonplace devices. Two handled all major lessons or any official training, Three taught Arthur how to use a CHu personalized for him and other electronics, Seven and One handled modern warfare, but Sextus taught Arthur about door controls, or putting on shoes, or any of the myriad miniscule tasks that had to be relearned after three thousand years of changes atop being transplanted into a space station. He liked that best, really.

At first, they were both cautious and careful of each other. Sextus was aware he was the unknown Merlin, and Arthur was not precisely comfortable with the others, either. In time, though, they settled with one and other, got into a pattern. Arthur still wouldn't openly discuss matters with him, but he also wouldn't banish Sextus from the room, either.

Mostly, taking care of Arthur had a large emotional component. While the king strode around boldly, while he forced himself to face every roadblock, it was a veneer that all of them, except perhaps Five and Three, couldn't see through. Really, Arthur Pendragon was scared down to his new boots, and he was trying to hard to be what he thought it was they all wanted from him. Tried to be the king Father waited for, the king the Merlins were made for, the king Arthur was growing less certain of daily.

While Three always tried to jolly Arthur from his occasional melancholic moods, Sextus had learned for two decades how to respond to the subtlest of emotional cues. He knew when to leave Arthur at peace, he knew when to step forward. He knew when to call Three to make jokes, because Sextus had no skill at humor. He knew when to call One for a sparring match because Arthur needed a body to hit that would hit back, not some unresponsive bag. Four may have made a move on Arthur, but if he had it never came to fruition. Sextus managed with humor, violence and understanding.

Arthur's emotions often hinged on what he'd seen that day from Lance's archives. Sometimes Sextus would sit with Arthur when he viewed the video clips, and sometimes he sat outside on the floor beside the door to wait. When Arthur came out he was sometimes amused, or touched, but more often he radiated a hurt tension.

Sextus hated those videos. What did it matter what had been done so long ago? Did Arthur need to know everything done in his name, everything done for him? Was it not enough for him to know Father had magic and he used it to protect Arthur? What purpose was there, when it hurt Arthur so much to know every bald truth? For gratification? Whose? Merlin had never needed it when he lived, so what sense was there to it? For their own? The Merlins were but imitations, and they were not intended to bask in reflected glory when they themselves were already mirrors.

Sextus hated the way it made Arthur hurt. He said nothing to Arthur, only murmured once a vague questioning of whether so much information was a good idea to Three. Three's eyes were wide. “Shouldn't he know?” Three had said.

Should he?

Sextus didn't think so.

How much better it would be if Arthur only knew the bare bones. Only what was vital. Then he wouldn't need to mourn.

However, his opinion was in the minority, so he did not speak of it again. Instead, he tried to make it easy for Arthur as he could. He cooked him fine meals, and rubbed his feet, he did all the laundry perfectly, and tended every one of Arthur's few belongings. He fetched a different Merlin when one was needed and in general managed Arthur so smoothly even Arthur had to begrudgingly confess Sextus was much better at being a manservant than Merlin had been.

It was not meant to be a compliment, really. It had been spoken with words not begrudging, but a little nostalgic.

Sextus didn't mind. In all honesty, his magic was curling with glee with Arthur’s mere proximity. Away from Min-Su, Sextus could let his magic roam free, could summon things to his hands, cook a whole dinner without moving from one position, he could see things in the distance, on and on, a dozen tricks and skills he dusted off to use. Sometimes Arthur would watch with a somewhat far away expression, and, sometimes he would ask Sextus to show him something. So Sextus would create dragons from stardust and spheres of glowing light, he would make Arthur's dirty laundry dance. Arthur would thank him, but the tricks always seemed to make him equally happy as sad.

And on the days when Arthur had watched all he could stand of father's memories Sextus followed Arthur, stewing with temper, malcontent or sadness to whatever activity Arthur had chosen to vent his emotions on. In the gym Sextus brought water and towels, spotted Arthur on the machines and watched him learning krav maga or tae kwon do. He reloaded plasma pistols when Arthur practiced shooting in the impromptu range set up in the cargo hold. He clocked laps when Arthur ran the circular hallways, he sat silently at the ready when Arthur brooded. Whatever was needed of him as Arthur learned the extent of the unseen doings since Merlin Prime came to Camelot, Sextus did.

Until, Arthur came to the end. To the great battle at Camlann, almost three months after he had come to Tintagel.

That day Arthur left the recreation room where he watched through the other door, and was missing for the length of time it took Three to get to his CHu. Sextus had been angry he hadn't been keeping an eye on both doors, hadn't gauged how much video was left.

Arthur was found sitting on the floor in one of the observation bays through the cameras. When Sextus entered the room with Three in his wake Arthur was staring at the stars, his expression vague and melancholy, feet pressed flat to the ground, knees bent.

There was something almost defeated in him. Sextus went to him at once, desperate to comfort and temper the painful emotions radiating off their king. Without hesitance he curled himself around Arthur's feet like a dog. He heard Three's intake of breath, surprised and a little disconcerted. It didn't matter.

Holding Arthur would be too much a presumption. This way, Arthur's feet would be warm, and he would know he was cared for.

Arthur watched him do it, eyes rousted from the stars, but didn't flinch. Only observed, his knuckles braced against his scalp. Somewhere there was the sound of Three lowering himself into a chair. Sextus closed his eyes and focused on the legs he was wrapped around. The feeling of strong calves against his kneecaps, feet under his belly. Perhaps, if he could make them feel better, could improve those toes, then the rest of him would know some ease.

“I never noticed any of it,” Arthur finally said into the quiet. “Then again, I was so busy collecting accolades for things I never did, why would I?” His voice had an angry quality, sharp with self disgust.

“It's not like that, Arthur,” Three was quick to defend.

Arthur interrupted him. “No? Isn't it? I certainly didn't slay a gryphon, the Questing Beast, or the dragon. I didn't reclaim my kingdom on two separate occasions from Morgana. I never rescued anyone. All the foes I never stopped, all the actions I never even noticed, all the traitors we harbored because I couldn't see anything. Not even Merlin. And he was right under my nose and not even particularly subtle about it.”

Arthur paused a moment, and neither Sextus nor Three spoke.

“It wasn't just a lie about who he was. It was a lie about who I was. It was a lie about what I'd really accomplished, what I would be. The things he'd told me I'd done and I just . . . I just believed it. I boasted to him. I can remember him telling me the truth to my face, telling me to look, to pay attention and I never did. That's the kind of man I was. I am. A man who takes credit for things he cannot remember doing, who never noticed the most essential things about his friend. A man who never did anything; he had a sorcerer to do it for him. And yet Merlin -- What did I ever do to earn his loyalty? What have I done to earn yours? I'm hardly deserving of it.”

“That's not true!” Three hastened to say. “All the best things, the things that really mattered, Arthur, those things you did alone. You did them without anyone telling you. Defeating a skeleton army or whatever, yeah, it's not a walk in the park, but it's, well, it's easy, isn't it? Point and kill. And it doesn't really matter, in the end, not _matter_ -matter. Knighting Lancelot and Percy and Elyan? That was hard. You knew your father wouldn't approve. Dad didn't do that. He didn't even tell you to. You knew it was the right thing to do. You always do the right thing, Arthur. Oo, or when you offered yourself to single combat for Annis to avoid a war? Or, oh, when you made peace with Odin, or even, even when you saved Dad to go get the Mortaeus flower? There's so much more, stuff that were the actions of a good man, a righteous man who is brave and just, not to mention honorable and, and noble, and has a good sense of humor. Well. An okay sense of humor. Better when you don't have stocks to put people in. And that's what really matters, not the other stuff.”

Sextus opened his eyes when Three spoke. It was so passionate, so invigorated. It was matched by his expression, open and sure as his words. As he always looked when father had told them stories about Arthur, when Arthur was a mythic figure, alive in tales and not in flesh.

After a moment's quiet Arthur smiled a small smile. “I don't think you'll ever know how happy I am you got Merlin's inane prattle, Three.”

“I specialize in it. But you know it's not inane. You know it's all true. You're just, well, a bit miffed. It's a lot of stuff. It's not just learning Dad was magic That's kinda the easy bit.”

Arthur turned to look at the stars again. Perhaps Three was correct. He looked marginally less sad.

“And you will forgive him. You can't be mad at your destiny forever.” Three carried on.

“I don't believe in destiny.” Arthur intoned softly.

There was a moment's stunned quiet.

Three made a sound in his throat. “But . . . you're here. I mean, well. Talk about proof. It counts for something, doesn't it?”

“Perhaps. But maybe I'm here because Merlin believed I would be. And other people believed it too. So they made it come true.”

“But -- no -- the prophecies --”

Arthur cut him off. “A man makes his own fate. I believe that. I don't believe our lives are guided by some destiny which lead us here. Someone may have told Merlin I was his destiny. But Merlin chose to stay. Destiny did not force him. Besides. I don't believe the nature of the universe would be this cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“I can't think of another word for it. If Merlin is a sample of fate's whims, I give her no measure of my faith.”

And Sextus could understand that. He soothed his cheek lightly against the toe of Arthur's boot once. The Merlins were raised on stories of fate and prophecy, like living on a diet of happily ever after. Impossible, once you got into the real world. Even his father had never seen how ill used he was for believing in the two-sides-to-the-same-coin nonsense. Or maybe he had, who was Sextus to judge? But even Sextus could see, if he'd never believed none of it would have happened. Maybe . . . maybe Arthur was right.

It didn't rock the foundations of Sextus' core all that much. He _had_ literally been made for Arthur. Perhaps Merlin had not, perhaps he had only perceived, or been fooled, or perhaps it was a path he chose, for Arthur's sake s much as his own. Father could hardly have selected a better candidate upon whom to gift his many protective abilities. Arthur had, formerly unknowingly, been the largest target in Albion for misdeeds. Would it be unlikely that in making Arthur his project father found a purpose to his skills and kept himself sane while he turned a lump of coal into a diamond?

Sextus watched Arthur from under his lashes. Watched as Arthur turned to stare at the stars again.

“He left those records as if he thought he'd never see me. The only chasm I could think would separate us would be death.” This tone was lingering, encouraging one of them to add what they knew. When no response was immediate, Arthur tried again, more direct, but without looking at them. “Is he dead?”

“I don't think -- I . . . I mean, no. Probably not.” Three hedged.

Sextus finally spoke. “No. We would feel it. We would know.”

“Then where is he? And why did he go?”

Three shrugged. Sextus could just see the motion while he fastened his eyes closed.

“Why?” Arthur asked, and Sextus could feel him staring at him. “Why did he go? Why did he make all of you? I don't understand it.”

“We don't know,” Three said. It had the faint air of a gentle reminder, as if Arthur had already been told this.

“Why?” The tone went softer, and Sextus felt fingers brush his hair, cup the crown of his head. It made his heart hurt, made him wish Arthur's selective intuition had not alighted with such surety on this notion even as it felt so delicious. Arthur had yet to really touch him, outside of a casual brush or bump. The stroke of the fingers was bliss, and Sextus' lashes fluttered. He focused on that and tried to pretend the question was not laid on his doorstep until Arthur's fingers pulled lightly on the hair. Sextus gasp, even as Arthur made Sextus look at Arthur's beautiful face. He didn't ask again, but Arthur's face read of his expectation.

Sextus couldn't look at him for too long before he dropped his eyes. He inhaled. He'd been content to let Three do the talking. Three was better at it. Three knew all the words, and how they could fit together into patterns of comfort and reason, or deception and necessity.

“I don't know.” He whispered hoarsely. The lie hurt him as he formed the sounds that made it.

“You do, I think.” Arthur said.

Sextus did not deny it, and could not lie again. He squeezed his eyes shut again as the fingers on his head became soft once more. They stroked gently over his crown and made Sextus want to weep with their tenderness.

“Tell me.” Imploring. Sextus could not resist it. He opened his eyes to look at Arthur, who watched him with an alert studiousness.

He wet his lips before venturing delicately. “ Thousands of years. Waiting for the fire that would raze the world with such horror and desolation it would warrant a savior.” Arthur gave a grunt at identifying him as a savior, but Sextus continued “Watching every spark, to see if it would be a one to begin the inferno, always waiting, knowing the flames are coming, waiting, always waiting. Devising ways to fight the blaze, learning everything you can about fire, drawing plans of every path it could take, every kind of flame and ignition source, waiting for it to begin, always waiting for it to begin and knowing when it does you'll finally see your other half again. How long?” It was the most he'd yet spoken. It made his throat hurt.

“To wait?” Three prompted sadly.

Sextus shook his head, risked a glance at Arthur. He spoke slowly, trying to keep the regret for the starkness from the words. “How long until you're tempted to start the fire yourself?”

He saw Arthur take the words, saw his mouth hardened as the meaning of it occurred. Sextus curled himself tighter around Arthur's feet in apology. Wrapped himself around to place a kiss on Arthur's anklebone. He was relieved when Arthur didn't draw away, when he didn't flinch.

It was quiet a long time, this time.

Sextus listened to his heartbeat.

_Ar-thur. Ar-thur. Ar-thur._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Still not beta'ed and if anyone would like that job, give me a message. Other than that, constructive criticism is groovy. I know I have a tense problem.
> 
> So, this is not meant to be a healthy representation of these kinds of activities in the least, but then, if you've got your stuff together you'll note Sextus is a very different fellow from Four.
> 
> Probably there will be a bit of delay before the next one. Five is proving a bit elusive, finding his headspace.
> 
> To everyone who has left comments and kudos; thank you very much! I'm stoked people like this, since it's kind of not super sci-fi-ish as I planned and is much more FEELINGS IN SPACE.


	8. 07: Anja

 

Though the king did not watch vid files left by Merlin Prime beyond his own death (which relieved Sextus enormously, as he had worried his nails down to the quick for the duration of the showings) the topic was never far from his mind. The king could be in the middle of an ordinary task, pause, and ask some half strained question which betrayed how much he was thinking of these matters. Questions like 'Did I curse Merlin to this, wishing he would never change? Wishing he would always be the same? Did I do this?' or 'How precisely did the dragon know Morgana would become an enemy of Camelot? He'd been locked in that dungeon for years, how did he know anything?' or even “Would Merlin have survived the Mortaeus flower, if he then lived forever?'

 

There were never any answers to be had, which disquieted the king, though he tried to hide it. Thank heavens he had Three and Sextus to assuage the creeping insecurities.

 

It wasn't that Five didn't care, except . . . that he kind of didn't. He was a physician, but his compulsion to aide was mixed with a certain distance from emotion. He couldn't see getting that fussed about most of it. The delicate paths between the king and Merlin Prime were best not trod at all unless by those two persons. In all honesty, he often found their relationship ridiculously overcomplicated, not to mention melodramatic. Even with one party in absence, the remaining one still managed to elevate their connection to new heights of despair and reverence, self recrimination and longing.

 

It was like living with two fourteen year old girls in love.

 

The king was healing, both physically and mentally. Yet, as he healed and grew stronger, more confident and adept in this world, the Merlins suffered a slight decline. The anticipatory excitement had worn down in the months that followed the king's miraculous rising, and now all that was left was anxiety and worry. The Once and Future King had risen, but, what for? Now what? It became a perpetual state of waiting.

 

Despite Two's efforts to discern some motivation there seemed to be no reason. It wasn't as if the king would be useful in the economic collapse of the Kinsan Nebula. He was no authority in the civil unrest of the triple gendered planet Zeta. In point of fact, the king was still dealing with homosexuality being an option for double gendered planets.

 

For the most part, the merlins were nervous. The hero was present. The longer the trap went unsprung, the more ulcers Two got. The more weapons One built in his work room, the more alcohol Seven drank, the more chatty Three got. The more Five itched to move on. Many places had work that needed doing. Many places that were not here. His skills as a healer were in high demand around the galaxy. There never seemed to be enough doctors to reach all the corners of the galaxy. He was always welcome in rustic homesteads on newly colonized planets where a doctor had yet to set up trade. Somewhere he didn't have to be surrounded by his own face behaving in a number of erratic and ridiculous ways.

 

Also, truth be known, Five's brothers drove him a little mad. The station was 70% Merlin, and that was a bit much, by Five's reckoning.

 

Lance did not count. He was an appliance. He ran state of the art emotional software, but there was no an iota of him that was not artificial fakery.

 

Still, there were benefits.

 

 

 

 

 

The door burst open and Seven lurched in. He blinked at the bed.

 

“Dammnit, Seven! Can't you knock?” Five grumbled. He pulled the sheet over his groin.

 

Seven rolled his eyes and made a disgusted sound. “Can't you not fuck your clone? Jesus. Incest is what that shit is.”

 

One glanced between both of them, then rolled out of the bed. Unconcerned about his nudity he strode to where he things were piled on a chair and began shucking his clothes on.

 

“I prefer to think of it more as something akin to masturbation. ” Five leaned over and grabbed One's hand as One buttoned his jumper. He drew One in for a filthy open mouthed kiss more to discomfort Seven than anything else, though he made it sufficiently affectionate. It would never do to have them all catching on.

 

Seven made a repulsed sound and from the corner of his eye Five saw him hold up a hand to block the view.

 

When they parted Five smiled up at One. One stared back with his dark, flat eyes. Dear man. Never said a word, but saw a lot more than Five liked. “We'll talk later. Shoo,” Five said for One's hearing alone.

 

One shooed.

 

“Seeing as you do all you can to prove what a unique, different and special snowflake you are, I fail to see why you would have a problem.” Five said, lolling back onto the blankets.

 

“It's still like fucking your brother. You're a God damn doctor, don't you know about genes and crap? Fucked up three headed kids?”

 

Five sucked back a laugh and put on a kindly demeanor. “And if one of us was fecund, you would have a point.”

 

Seven looked confused. Five could only wonder how it was they shared genes.

 

“Since One and I can't make a baby, being two men, you only need to worry about our emotional well-being, which is quite satisfactory. One and I have an understanding,” Five cleared his throat “What did you want?” He held up the blankets so act as a shield so he could slip into his robe.

 

Across the room Seven appropriated his screen. Five watched as Seven logged in and then pulled up a news feed.

 

“This somehow made it past Two's filters.” Seven said and stepped aside so Five could read the news article while he tied his robe closed.

 

Notorious gangster found slaughtered. 200 dead on station.

 

Five's brows winged up. Then he shrugged. “I suppose power vacuums of the criminal variety wouldn't really affect the state of the galaxy. Arthur could hardly take over as gang lord.”

 

“Jesus Christ. Use your brain.”

 

Five frowned, but lolled his head to look at the screen. “What?”

 

“Min Su Wanatsu.” Seven said.

 

Five raised his brows and skimmed the article again. Seven snorted.

 

“This is why you fucks shouldn't rely on a computer doing your thinking for you. Min Su. The woman Six has been with all these years? Found slaughtered, all of her generals, dozens of enforcers, dealers and mercenaries dead. You know who survived? The menials, the domestics, most of the slaves. Someone killed every criminal asshole on that station, but spared the inconsequential ones, and guess when? The day after Arthur woke up, that's when!” Seven had started to pace with agitation.

 

Five left the screen and went to the drawers to pick out fresh clothing to don. Well, after a shower. “You're suggesting . . . ?”

 

“Six! He killed -- the whole station -- he basically liquified them! Listen; 'Investigators report the difficulty in identifying what is suspected to be hundreds of dead on Station K-12, due to the unexplainable cause of death. At best estimate, station gravity centers malfunctioned, which could explain the implosion suffered'. He made people soup!”

 

Well. Never let it be said Sextus let people walk all over him when he wasn't enjoying it.

 

Still, Five screwed up his face for form's sake in response to the people soup thing. “That's disgusting.”

 

“That's what happened.”

 

Five carried his things into the little attached bathroom. “Are you sure, Seven? Seems terribly far fetched.”

 

“Do you know anyone else who could kill that many deadly people by never laying a hand on them?” Seven made a frustrated sound. “If we even suspect it he shouldn't be near Arthur!” he snapped.

 

Five shrugged. “I'm certain Sextus won't melt Arthur. Not if he was willing to dispose of that many people just to get to him.”

 

“Christ. We never should have let him on board. He's going to kill us all.”

 

“You're over-reacting.”

 

“Me? Over-reacting? Do you fucking see these bodies? Look at the fucking footage!”

 

It was fairly graphic. Five couldn't help but wonder how Sextus had managed it, what he'd imagined that his magic had made real.

 

“Even if it was him, and I don't think we should judge, he only seemed to harm those worth harming. Safe to say we're safe. I'd rather have someone like that on our side.”

 

Seven gaped at him a moment, clearly having been expecting an ally.

 

Then he stamped out of the room.

 

“Stay out of Four's stash of vodka in the cargo hold, it's bad for your liver!” Five called after him. “I just replaced it!”

 

 

 

 

 

If it had been somehow possible for Seven to be more surly to Sextus than he already was, they would never discover it. The king had an uncanny and even somewhat subtle method of keeping them all at balance and peace. Once over the general shock, the crippling emotional whiplash, the inevitable meloncholia, the king seemed fairly adroit at handling them. He gradually went from someone they were caretaking, to an equal and then in some ways, to a leader. He was always learning, studying, absorbing centuries of war-making and weapons and whatever else Three threw at him for 'fun'.

 

This was how it was discovered that The Once And Future King, His Majesty, Arthur Pendragon, had some skill at origami. He seemed to find folding hundreds of little paper dragons and swords soothing. Three found this delightful. He collected them up and had strings of them draped around his work room. Well, the ones that the king didn't quietly fold up to near perfection, then snip to pieces with scissors, usually decapitating it first. Five didn't think anyone else had seen that little ritual, as the king became more and more aware of the cameras and what they did, and so had thrown a fit to get them pulled out of his room.

 

Anyway, Five chalked it up as a healthy purge of emotion, rather than impending psychosis.

 

He was growing, after all. Out of an iron age relic they had to baby along into something new and lethal and occasionally troublesome. He insisted on becoming proficient with the standing legal system and government, and the history which had moved governance away from monarchs. While he was sometimes displeased, in the end he admitted it was the best course for the world to have taken.

 

He also liked to fuss about what was just and what wasn't.

 

Five tried to have as little to do with the whole process as possible. Which was why the day he came back to his med-ship with some antibodies he'd been using Tintagel's mainframe to work out and found the king in it was a bit unnerving.

 

Five smiled at the king, welcoming him, even if it made him twitchy having the man in his lab. There were lots of delicate instruments, lots of biohazards he wasn't entirely certain Arthur could entirely grasp. Lots of messes he could make without ever meaning to.

 

“Hello, Arthur, something I can do for you?” He loaded the data chip onto the onboard unit. Subtly made sure the shipboard computer hadn't been poked at.

 

The king looked up at him. “I wondered if we could talk.”

 

“If you like.”

 

The king liked.

 

They relocated to one of the lounges on Tintagel, the one Four didn't sneak off to smoke in. Five made them tea. The king had taken to tea.

 

“Well. How are things coming?” Five began merrily. Being merry put people at ease.

 

“I've been thinking a lot. About Merlin.” the king said, looking at the glossy surface of his tea.

 

Five chuckled. “I imagine everyone on Tintagel knows that.”

 

“No, it's not only that. Not what he did. Or how. It's why.”

 

Five toyed with his tea, saying nothing. He sensed the king wanted to have a ramble. Maybe he was tired of confiding in Three and Sextus. They were ever so eager to agree with him and probably had no legitimate advice to offer. Nor would Two, come to think of it, as he was so busy being totally obliging.

 

After a few minutes the king continued. “Thousands of years he was just waiting. Waiting because someone said I'd be back. Thousands of years never wavering. After eight years being my servant. He commanded dragons, watched his father die in front of him, defeated Cornelius Sigan, Ninmeuh, Morgause, Morgana, and he spent most of his time washing my bloody socks.”

 

The king stood, abandoning his untouched cup, motions jerky as he paced to the windows that offered the magnificent view of the cosmos. He stood so close to the barrier Five could see his breath create condensation, and then he touched it, leaving fingerprints.

 

“How could I be worthy of that? I'm just a man. A king only for three years. I didn't even leave an heir.” There was tight emotion in the voice. The kind that made Five's insides squirm because it couldn't be solved by bed rest or a standard issue condolence.

 

“I authorized his kin to be executed.”

 

Well. Nobody could have denied that. Camelot was one match happy place when there was sorcerous kindling.

 

“What's your point, Arthur?” Five said, making it sound gentle and probing.

 

“Why? Why did he -- when he was afraid I'd kill him if I knew the truth. Why did he bother? So many things neither of us understand about this. Won't ever understand, and now we're here again. And how can I protect him if it all repeats? How can I protect you all?”

 

Five smiled. “And perhaps that, Arthur, is your answer.”

 

The king only looked at him a little searchingly, but in a much less open way than Five would have expected. As if he were afraid of what Five would say, as if held back from it, lest it hurt.

 

Five shrugged. “One man would think of all the worlds he could conquer, with Merlin by his side. Another would consider all the good he could do, all the evil he could vanquish using Merlin as a tool. You, Arthur Pendragon. You wonder how you can protect the most powerful magic being to exist. You don't want anything from him, for good or ill.” Well, it wouldn't do to have the king feel insecure, for he would carry on whining about it. “Is that not a man worth devotion?”

 

“I don't know.” the king said, and looked back towards the window, then back at Five. “Then there's you lot.”

 

Five spread his fingers wide. “We are what we are.”

 

“I know what the others are.” Arthur's eyes narrowed just slightly.

 

“Others?” Five prompted.

 

“But you're different.”

 

“We're all different.”

 

“Not like you.”

 

The king had turned to look at him, and in his blue eyes Five saw something hard. He'd yet to see such a look from the man. It made him feel exposed. Which was ridiculous. The king was rather simple, really. For all Merlin Prime and the others idolized him, the tales of their past proved that between them Merlin Prime was the superior intellect. And therefore, so were the Merlins.

 

The king said “I can see it. Little parts of Merlin, made bigger and smaller. Like pieces in a suit of armor, all slotted together to make the whole man.”

 

“Not me, then? I don't fit?” Five said, working out a little entertained smile, as if he found the whole thing an amusing diversion.

 

“No. You fit.”

 

Five relaxed a bit, and raised his mug in a little toast gesture to the king, a signal of gratitude for acknowledging his place in the pantheon of Merlin. As if he needed the stamp of approval.

 

“You're the piece that lied to my face so well. You're the piece that poisoned Morgana, that tried to kill Mordred. You're that ruthless, vicious, petty little corner that was so small in him, brought whole and real, and covered up with his want to help and heal, like a mask.”

 

Five went a little cold inside and tried to shield his surprise. He'd never heard anyone give such a blatant expose` of his character. Sure, the occasional lingering look from One, but the rest of them? Put at ease by the smile, wooed by the kindness. Merlin Prime had been like that. Kindness was a sign of goodness.

 

The king was staring at him, hard and long. Five stared back.

 

“I'd have thought you were too busy for such fanciful psychological musings.” Five said at length, and sipped from his mug without tasting the tea. It was easy to warp his tone into something amused and tolerant.

 

The king didn't move from his place by the window. “I won't lie to you. Not like he did to me. I know what you are, and I want you to know I'm watching you. You're a Merlin, a part of him and I will always protect you, but I know what you are, what you could do, if you felt you had to.”

 

Five shrugged, setting the mug on the table top. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said smoothly, casting the king a look which was well practiced in unconcerned ease.

 

The king smiled thinly. He moved forward to the sitting Five and raised a hand. Five didn't let himself flinch when the king tapped his cheek with his palm. The pat was almost affectionate, except for the look in his eyes.

 

“Still lying to me.” the king said softly, making it sound like a confirmation. That irked Five.

 

“Wouldn't want to, according to you, break a habit of several hundred lifetimes.” Five retorted. "If that's what you think of me, that I'm a petty poisoner and a ruthless killer, aren't you afraid of what I'll do to you?"

The king let his hand drop. "No."

He went to his side of the table and picked up his cup. He took it to the little sink unit and dumped the contents out, slotting the mug into the dish chute. Three had been drilling tidiness into him, whereas Sextus was more than happy to pick up any mess the king made as if it were some kind of personally inscribed gift.

 "Why?" Five shot at him, still agitated he had been stripped so bare by someone so dim. He'd come to his feet, hands pressed to the table top.

"Because," The king came back him, on Five's side of the table, fearlessly into the space of someone he accused of being the wicked core of a being of immense magic.

This time when the king raised his hand, he caressed the sharp line of Five's cheek and spoke with a hoarse sureness. "Because you're a Merlin and you love me."

for a moment Five hesitated, distracted by the look in the blue eyes. Then he remembered himself and jerked away from the touch. The king stood there a moment, his hand still raised where it had touched Five's cheek. He almost wanted to rub the spot where he could still feel the heat of fingers, feeling rooted to the spot and off balance in the most detestable way.

The king dropped his hand. “If something is coming, if there is a reason for this, for me, we need to be strong. Unified. I need to know my assets, my weaknesses. So I want you to leave One alone. Stop taking Sextus' blood and don't push Seven towards alcohol anymore.”

Five felt himself react before he could temper, before he could filter. “Spying, Pendragon? Hardly becoming behavior for a king.” How had he known about those little things? Just little things. The king had no right to sound that way about them

“No.” the king said simply, softly, and almost generously. “I just decided this time I was going to see Merlin for who he was. Even the parts of him which hate himself.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I actually got completely stuck on this chapter long before I started on Heart in a Headlock. Five turned out to be INCREDIBLY hard to write for, and I kept tinkering, then shunting aside, tinkering and stopping. He's made up of a lot more of the glimmers and less seen aspects of Merlin's character.
> 
> It's still not right, so I might play with it again in the future, 'cause it seemed a bit late to throw in a beta just for the last installment and I figured I better finish it, since Headlock has moved into my brain like I'm being occupied.


	9. 00: The Message from Arthur Pendragon

 

 

 

**Recording Begins.**

 

 

 

Blue eyes. Uncertain of where the camera was at first. Unintelligible muffled direction.

 

 

 

_Merlin._

 

_Um._

 

_. . . I feel strange doing this. Am I looking at the right place? How am I supp--_

 

 

 

**Recording Ends.**

 

 

 

**Recording Begins.**

 

Blue eyes. Straight at the camera.

 

_Merlin. I'm not good at this kind of thing, not even now, but you provided for me, and I'll be damned if I won't do the same._

 

_You're a shit warlock, you know that?_

 

_And an ass._

 

_. . . Dollophead._

 

Sigh. Blond hair rubbed.

 

_I'm not so good with words as you are. Well, you know, you went over my speeches-_

 

Unintelligible off camera commentary. A flinch

 

 _Yes, all right,_ _**wrote** _ _my speeches._

 

_I'm . . ._

 

_You should have mentioned the whole 'Once and Future' bit, Merlin. Couldn't you have found a way to work that in there? You did most things, sort of sneak them in so I wouldn't notice, or just hit me over the head with them, seeing as you are actually rubbish at being covert._

 

_Alright, perhaps not._

 

_Doesn't make it any less inconvenient._

 

_I'm doing this for a reason, you know, not just as fuel for future amusement on your part. I'm doing this so you'll know, so there's proof I believed. You thought I'd never come. You left all those messages because you really believed I'd never come. You'd given up._

 

_I'm leaving this one so you'll know I always believed you'll wake up. That I didn't give up faith in you, that I won't, no matter what happens._

 

Fidgeting.

 

_I didn't understand at first, why you kept it all for me to know. Things I'd rather not have. It was hard, at first. Really, really hard. But, later,I don't know. Now I think it had to happen._

 

_I do know that if I didn't let you know everything I've done I doubt you'd forgive me._

 

Pause.

 

_Obviously, I did come back. It was awful too, but they were there, just as you intended. Your numbers. Came and fetched me, tried to put me together. Terrified me a bit, that and your Lancelot robot. But they were good to me. Taught me about the world, myself and you._

 

_I still can't believe how big things are. Time, distances, planets, solar systems, galaxies, populations, destinies, cells, genes, germs, matter. Everything is complicated, big even when it's tiny. It seems like nothing is simple. I remember when winning a tournament took all my thought, when all the problems were easy; kill bandits, stop gryphons, defend the city._

 

_Then I was dropped into this world, without reason. Without you, really. It's strange for you to have been with me and yet not all at the same time. It was you, but somehow not. Even they can't replace you, even if they are you, somehow. It's just not right, always close, but never precise._

 

_I wanted you back. Not because it's fate or anything, just, you and I, Merlin. When we take things on, there's nothing to compare us to. I never wanted to replace you, even with a perfect servant like George. No one can replace you._

 

_Then these serpent . . . bug . . . fish things came. They have a proper name, but mostly we call them bugs. They have these serrated forelegs built for killing, like bugs. Two said something about them needing resources, which is why they were attacking Albion -- the Earth -- but eventually they began laying their eggs in people. There's more about them but, but they aren't the point. The point is, they wanted to end us. Worse than any of  the magic things we ever met._

 

_I suppose King Arthur was finally needed._

 

_It's funny. He doesn't feel like me, this myth they've built. Some paragon, not me. But I do try, Merlin. I try to be him for them. Try to be everything they've made me out to be, that you made me out to be. It gives them hope, strength._

 

_So. We stopped them. Your numbers, my knights, men -- and women -- I gathered. Whole armies, in the end, and they call me King Arthur, and make jokes about how Arthur did return at their hour of need._

 

_But, we stopped them. Not me, them. Us. Saved humanity. It was a war, an awful, long hideous war. Worse than anything before. Fighting has always been brutal. The weapons of these days, though, Merlin..._

 

Another shake of the head and sigh. An indication to the raw scar on the cheek.

 

_I got this. A few others. And I was lucky. So lucky._

 

_We lost so many._

 

A long, sad pause, eyes drifting before meeting the camera.

 

_Seven. Did something they called a 'kamikaze'._

 

_Worse, Merlin, I failed to protect Three. We were in this bug ship, their big home ship, and we were trying to blow it up and something had gone wrong with the electronics, the wiring, and Three was trying to fix it, even when we told him to get out. He wasn't supposed to be there; just like you, tagging along where he shouldn't. He said it was our only shot, he had to make it work. We tried to guard him, tried to stop them, but they came from behind, through this door we'd sealed and they --_

 

A halt to regain composure.

 

_I destroyed them, for that._

 

_Lance gave us the codes then. And we found you. All . . . plugged in like that._

 

_Five says you probably won't wake up. He's done everything to be done. All we can do is wait. Two says you might have integrated into all of Tintagel's systems, but we'd need Three to know how much of it was computer and how much was you. He doesn't think you can come back out._

 

_They've been safe for two centuries, and they wonder how that was. How the bugs never even came close to finding Tintagel._

 

_I should have known better, known you would never make them then leave them. You never abandon people._

 

Another long pause. An absent rub to the shoulder. Eyes to the camera.

 

_Once Six told me that you had to stop yourself before you did something awful. That you just had to stop, for a while._

 

_Sleep, Merlin. Sleep as long as you need._

 

_I'll be here when you wake up. I promise._

 

 

 

**Recording Ends.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'd love to write THAT fic, about what happened, but in the context of this specific fic it wasn't that I was looking at. So, here I leave it. Yo
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudos'd and cheered me on, it was so incredibly appreciated, you don't even know. Thank you!!


	10. Nirvana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I said I was going to do it, and I really felt it today. A lot of people have asked for it, and it continues to be well rec'ed, so, here is a lovely little coda. Expect the same emotions as the fic proper. Completely unbeta'ed and very rough.

He could hear.

It was a tinny, human sense. Limited. Vibrations thrumming through delicate bones and flesh, into his brain to categorize and turn into recognizable if limited data; beeping, whispers, the hum of machinery. Nothing about frequencies, distance, no way to deconstruct and separate layers, no repository of sounds to compare and match to. Just trembling calcium.

It was strange, and wonderfully organic, even if the ability was stunted with the limits of biology. It was such a novelty he found himself listening. Not trying to make sense of the sounds, but letting the simple hearing of them wash over him.

The problem came in the midst of of this; the simple realization that he was hearing. He wasn't supposed to notice what he was and was not doing, or even that he had a body that he was or was not using. That was the purpose of the protocols he built into Tintagel concerning his entombment. He was not supposed to know.

Perhaps it was a flaw? A fumbling corner of his mind reached out to the host of other senses which had been linked to him. He found them maimed, empty. No hundreds of lenses from which to see, no sway of interstellar gravitational forces, no taste of stardust, no capacity to detect chemical compositions, no access to the data stream, no mechanical songs singing in his head.

It was just him.

Alone inside his skull. Just … Merlin.

Even thinking his own name made him shy away. He tried to roll, bury under himself under micro-processes of station maintenance, send that part of himself back into the abyss, but the more he tried, the less success he had. There were no reading to sieve, no machinery to modulate. There was just himself.

Now he could smell, too. And taste. The air was tangy, high notes of something sharp and antiseptic, chill with the sanitizing of the filtration systems, and under it, the very scent of his body. All meat, oil, hair and bone.

The scent of it reminded Merlin he had a body rich with nerves. There were elbows, toes, hips and head, all laid out upon his back. He felt them there, but did not move, content to merely take inventory that everything was where it ought, and what had gone. He could feel none of the uplinks wired into his body, only a pinching cold at the back of his left hand that chilled his very veins in the that extremity, though the rest of him was warm, cloaked under something soft and light, a slight pressure over his nose and mouth. No. No links. Just flesh. He was all flesh once more.

And there was flesh touching him. Stroking across his knuckles, regular as a pulse.

He did not want it, but Merlin knew he was awakening. The horrible process now started could not be reversed. He tried, though. He fought. He laid still as could be and tried to force himself back underneath, back under the blanket of data and wires to numb him. It was impossible, of course, without a direct uplink. Instead, the stillness seemed to sharpen his feeble human senses, and soon he knew there were two other bodies in the room with him. He could hear their words, and comprehend them, and then, know them.

“Maybe some adrenaline?” Two said.

“No. Give him time.” Sextus.

“It's been hours. How much more time?” Impatience in Two's voice. Desperation. Merlin hadn't heard emotion in speech for so long, but the way sound stretched and trembled was unmistakable. It wakened the other parts of him, doors in his mind opening.

His children.

They flooded his mind. Not the cold knowledge of their presence obtained through biometric readings or registering computer access, but the way he felt them before; like phantom limbs. They were children, and yet not. He'd never have been able to put himself under without cleaving bits of himself away, without diminishment. Yet, outside his body they were different. He saw parts he'd not seen in so long, and felt how precious they were, when not smothered under everything else.

But now...he was fuller. Fatter. And then he knew that the two in the room with him were all that remained. The others had returned to him, bringing back their distinctiveness.

He opened his eyes in defeat.

Someone breathed in relief.

It took him a few moments to make sense of sight, to see through cones and rods and make his brain form the identity of what he saw through paths long unused.

When he did, he recognized Tintagel's med-bay illuminated by soft light. He lay in a narrow berth, one of the pods for cryo-sleep. There was a mask over his face, an IV in his hand.

Two was there at the foot of his bed. It was like looking at a vision of his past, his face young, sharp angles and softness all mixed together, the face still unsettled between lingering adolescence and manhood.

Except for the eyes. They were too old for Two's face. Too tired. Too worldly. They stared into Merlin's, pleading. Such a familiar rawness that made Merlin's throat hurt. He understood. Oh yes, he did.

As Merlin looked upon Two, into him, Two inhaled a shuddering breath. When he let it out, Two's body bowed back, and then faded. In but a moment it was nothing, and his white jumpsuit fluttered to the ground, empty.

Merlin raised a hand to his chest, where heat sparked and settled. He took an unsteady breath himself.

He turned to look at the body seated beside him.

Sextus was old. Older than Dragoon. His beard was so long it trailed on the floor. His eyes matched his face, but unlike Two's, they were serene. It was he who was holding Merlin's hand, running his thumb over Merlin's knuckles.

“I'm sorry, Father,” he said. “He could not wait any more. He tried, but he was not enough.”

Merlin understood. There was no need to be sorry. He kneaded his breast, re-learning how sinew, muscle, tendon and bone flexed and flowed into motion. He could taste Two's fatigue on the back of his tongue, and did not begrudge.

He reached up to touch the mask, which Sextus helped him remove.

“How long?” His voice croaked. Raspy. He could feel the folds of his vocal cords vibrating in his throat.

Sextus stroked his hair into place where the bands of the mask had upset it. “Centuries.”

Not as long as he'd hoped.

Merlin lay back, and shut his eyes. Something beeped then hissed across the room and it roused him slightly.

“Just a protocol hooked into your brain-scan readings,” Sextus said, and peeled off two of the sensors which had been stuck to Merlin's chest to modulate his body. The he took Merlin's hand again. It drew Merlin's attention back, for surely he was not due kindness. They had to know, by now. They had to have realized he'd not made them out of love, even if he had ended up loving them. He'd made them to bear a burden he could no longer carry, had heaped their shoulders to the breaking point, then run away.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin said, fighting back emotion that bubbled inside, the one thing he'd wanted to hide from more than anything else. But he curled his fingers and held tightly.

“You needn't be.” Sextus said.

They sat like that for a time, until Sextus asked if he would like to sit. The movement was more complex, and his muscles protested it, so Sextus helped. When Merlin sat with his legs dangling over the side Sextus gave Merlin water. It tasted good. He hadn't even known he wanted it, but imbibed hungrily now it touched his lips.

When Merlin drank his fill he asked anew “Is everything..?”

“You will find everything ready for you. Lance is still here, and waiting. He will guide you.” Sextus rose, and shuffled to sit beside Merlin on the bed.

“Much has changed, and yet much has not,” Sextus said, then smiled and turned to look at Merlin. “The time is ripe for a new age to begin.”

How many times had he heard that? Merlin almost wanted to laugh, though it wasn't funny. Instead he nodded, put his glass down and took Sextus' knobby hand in his own.

Sextus' body sagged, and he let his head rest on Merlin's shoulder. “Father.”

Merlin pulled his childe in, and embraced him. He heard the raspy breathe of emotion threatening to overcome, but he held him until Sextus pulled back enough to look him in the face.

“I too am weary, father, and have now filled my purpose. I would like to go home.”

Merlin smiled, and nodded. It was time, after all, wasn't it?

He curled a hand around Sextus' head. It took time for the stooped and wizened figure to bend, to lift his old legs onto the bed so he could lay his head in Merlin's lap. His hair fell over Merlin's legs like a curtain of white. Merlin stroked it gently, until the crinkly strands became the consistency of silk, then gossamer, then shadows then …

The robes Sextus wore deflated, and heat speared Merlin's chest again.

They were all there, now. He could feel them. Sextus joined the others, and with him the bulk of Merlin's magic rushed through his veins, an injection of gold. At once Merlin felt more rejuvenated, though not more certain. Eternity still stretched before him, lonely. Waiting. Not even his children around him. Only he and his magic.

With his mind he reached out to draw the discarded jumpsuit up while he smoothed and folded the robes Sextus shed with physicality. Both muscles were tender, but soon he had both garments on his lap, neatly stacked. Droplets spattered them, and Merlin discovered he was crying. He smeared his hands across his cheeks, and looked at the glittering wetness on his palms.

He curled the fingers. With the understanding he was weeping, he felt the pain of it, the burning sorrow catching up to the physical process.

How could he do this again?

Merlin doubled over, holding himself and the empty clothing.

“I told them they should have put me in the same pod as you for just this reason.”

Merlin's head snapped up. There was only one voice like that. One gorgeous, resonant, dry, slightly mocking, totally smug, ridiculously posh, and completely beloved voice that sounded just as that one did.

“But no, only calibrated for one, apparently, 'not worth the risk'. But look at you. You're such a girl's petticoat.”

Arthur's beautiful golden hair was rumpled, his broad chest was bare, he wore the same thin medical trousers Merlin did, and had the same reddened marks were the pod sensors had lain.

Merlin couldn't breathe, struck still and silent, holding the garments.

Arthur sat down on the other side of the narrow pod bed and Merlin found himself twisted around into a hug, his face tucked into Arthur's neck. He still couldn't move, hands useless. Until he inhaled.

More than his own scent, this one was a revelation. An echo from a millenia upon millenia ago. It was royal bedding and sweaty hauberks and fighting back to back. It was truth and courage, gold and red, chief dragon and Arthur.

In a frenzy Merlin gripped the body holding his, losing track of Two and Sextus' things. There was no restraint in him, no thought, only a marrow deep elation the like of which he had never known, burning bright, thrumming in his veins. He laughing, clutching Arthur, until they rolled like puppies across the bed, wriggling, tangled together in joyous abandon. There was light, and Merlin thought it might have been bleeding out of his very skin, but he didn't care, because there was Arthur! Arthur! He ran his hands over and over Arthur to feel his solid, sturdy frame, the muscle, the pass of hair, the heat of skin, even the ripple of scar, but Arthur was hale and here.

Arthur was rumbling with laughter too, Merlin felt it reverberate across his body when Arthur rolled his heavier frame over and over Merlin's. There were boisterous hugs, a hand ruffling in his hair and speaking, though the words couldn't cut through Merlin's reverent delight, except when Arthur's lips formed his name. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Just the way he had longed to hear it said for eons upon eons. Merlin. Something cracked anew inside him and Merlin was swamped with tears again, so Arthur wrapped his arms around him. Enfolded in Arthur's embrace, Merlin was guided to lay, held tighter than should have been comfortable, but only wanting more, harder, nearer. Never to be let go, always to be tethered thus, rather than drifting alone. He wept for all those feelings he could never form into words, held so secure they could not help but leak out.

When Merlin could make any sense of the world again he was curled tight into Arther, his face was tucked into his chest. He reached a finger up to paint across the hairs slicked down with tears. So much. It seemed he'd cried a long while. He had no pride left to be embarrassed by it.

“Am I dead?” he asked. It seemed the only sensible explanation.

“Merlin, if your idea of heaven is a med-bay on an ancient space station in BFE, you're beyond all hope.”

Merlin tilted his chin upwards, and reached up to touch Arthur's cheek. There was a scar there. Merlin traced it, and under the path of his finger it simply vanished. “You're here.” What else would heaven be?

“You're ridiculous.” Arthur said, none the wiser. He was looking at Merlin as only Arthur could; with equal measures of affection and frustration.

Then he dropped his head and kissed Merlin.

Maybe it should have shocked Merlin, or maybe he should have shied from it, or even been desperate for it, clung to it as if it might never happen again. Instead, Merlin kissed Arthur back with the same gentle affection. It was just as things ought to be. Simple. Easy. Sweet.

“I'm still annoyed with you,” Arthur warned him when they parted.

That was okay. He probably deserved it. What did it matter? Arthur was here.

“And you're going to have to stop being so bloody stupid and self sacrificing.” Arthur said.

Merlin nodded. He was capable of little more than looking up at Arthur with complete adoration. Whatever Arthur wanted. Anything. Well. Until he had his wits about him again. Maybe not then. But for now, yes.

“I'm not going to explore the stupid universe with you if you aren't honest with me. We've had enough secrets, and we're not going to have any more. Are you listening to me, Mer _lin_? I am your king, after all, and this time I know I'm supposed to be taking care of you, and I plan on doing it, no matter how you fuss about it, and since I am king you have to do what I say and… ”

 

The End.  
(Well, the beginning, really.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this, rec'ed it, and left me a nice comment. This one is for all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a fun little idea that popped into my head. Mostly related to the idea that there is nothing this day in age which would really warrant Arthur's return, nothing that one man could do. Hence, Merlin and Scifi come together. This will hopefully be seven chapters, but who knows? It's unbetad, so I'm sure it's riddled with errors despite my having gone through it.  
> Lemme know what'chall think.
> 
> I don't confess any authority about chakras. In fact, I've probably fucked it up.


End file.
